Flame in the Dark
by nimblefire
Summary: Everyone knows that when you put a blind alchemist, the Elric Brothers, Ishval, alcohol, teenage hormones, and a simmering plot for vengeance together, you'll end up with a disaster of epic proportions. But stories are made of disasters, and this is the one where Edward and Alphonse set off on one final mission to help a person Ed will never admit he cares about. [Postseries FMAB]
1. Chapter 1 - Letter

**Author's Note:**

 **Hi there fellow fanfiction readers! This is my very first story on this platform, so be nice (just kidding, I can handle the heat, no mercy!). This idea came when I was rewatching Brotherhood after several years, and found that I had a better appreciation for the storyline. The FMA muses just wouldn't leave me alone till I wrote it(Fanfic sure is addictive...) Flame in the Dark almost specifically continues off from the Brotherhood series (I understand the manga ending was slightly different), and can almost be an AU as I divert from the canon ending.**

 **Please review and favourite if you liked it! THANKS~**

 **I do not own FMA (or even the cover of this story actually).**

* * *

 _Chapter 1 - Letter_

Four months had elapsed since the Promised Day, and life was, so far, being the absolute _opposite_ of a bitch that Edward Elric was beginning to feel a little intimidated.

He didn't feel like he deserved such blatant _happiness_ , not after how badly he had screwed up, but what other term could he use to describe this feeling of pure elation and contentment – the small thrill of his heart whenever Winry Rockbell stomped down the stairs, wrench in hand, screaming murder at the top of her lungs about someone making a mess of her workbench; the staggering relief he felt when Alphonse stuck his head out from his room at the clamour, a smile, a _real human smile_ , dancing across his lips.

And that, was a very accurate summary of an ordinary morning in the cozy Rockbell household.

Ed would often find himself sitting on the porch, the wind in his face and the sun on his skin, wondering with a strange sort of amusement when 'ordinary' had stopped being 'saving the world from the Homunculi' and started being 'listening to Winry chatter nonstop about her latest automail invention'. Funny how much the meaning of 'normal life' had changed for him ever since he retired from the military.

'Retired' wasn't a very accurate word to describe his situation. More like 'prolonged leave till an unspecified date'. Everyone he knew, including the newly installed Fuhrer, acknowledged that he needed the time off to care for his younger brother in his recently returned, malnourished body, as well as enjoy the peace and quiet they had sacrificed so much to obtain. But it seemed that everyone, including a reluctant Edward Elric, also knew that the seventeen year old couldn't keep away from adventure for long.

The reason was simple. He was the Fullmetal Alchemist – perhaps not in name right now, but always in spirit – and that fact would never change, ability to perform alchemy notwithstanding. Because Edward Elric was a young protégé still full of vigour and raw energy, and there was only so long he could lounge about doing nothing till he embarked on his next journey.

Some part of him even (grudgingly) admitted that he sort of missed his days as a State Alchemist –the long journeys and adrenaline rushes, the face-offs and the fever of excitement.

And then there were the people - the eccentric Armstrong siblings, his old security detail Danny Brosh and Maria Ross, Drs Marcoh and Knox, and of course, Colonel Bastard's merry band of brigands, Falman and Breda and Havoc and Fuery. He missed Hawkeye with her stern, gentle eyes and kind words, and maybe even, just a little (though he would rather die than voice this out loud) the idiot colonel whom she so faithfully watched over. Because, let's face it, life is never boring with Roy Mustang in the vicinity.

As if some form of mysterious alchemy had summoned it, a brilliant blue bicycle chose that exact moment to roll down the dirt road at maximum velocity, bell ringing in the crisp morning air as its owner screeched to a stop in front of the rickety wooden steps.

Ed coughed and swiped at the cloud of dust in his face. Den, who had his head on Ed's right thigh, offered no response save for a lazy perking of a furry ear.

"Morning, Ed!" Joseph trilled cheerily, the wicker basket of his bicycle overflowing with creamy envelopes and little packages wrapped in waterproof paper. He was one of the more permanent residents of Resembool, and had known the Elric-Rockbell trio since childhood. He now worked for the Resembool postmaster, making his rounds and delivering mail every Thursday. "If I hadn't known better, I'd say you look a little taller than your usual size today."

"Joseph –" Edward's brain paused, backtracked over the boy's words, and exploded. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL YOU HAVE TO BEND OVER TO SEE HIM, YOU JERK?!"

Having elicited the customary response, Joseph laughed and dumped a thick, bulging envelope at his feet. "See ya, Ed!" Turning his bike around, the older boy was already a distant blue speck on the horizon by the time Ed had recovered his wits about him enough to even think about pummelling him senseless.

Muttering under his breath, Ed picked up the large envelope, stood, and stomped up the stairs, pausing in front of the doorframe to measure his height against a narrow crack in the painted wall. He swore he was (finally) having his long overdue growth spurt – the crack definitely seemed a little lower than the year before.

Turning around as a wet nose nudged his now-flesh hand, Ed glanced down at Den. "I'm a little taller now, right?"

Den barked and wagged his tail. Ed took that as an agreement.

"Hmph," he snorted, pleased with himself. "Soon Colonel Bastard won't be able to make snide remarks about my height anymore."

Letting the door swing shut behind him and ignoring Granny Pinako's stern reminder to wipe his feet, Ed flipped the letter around curiously. _Postmarked from Central_.

"Hey Al!" Ed yelled for his brother as he tore open the envelope, strewing its heavy contents all over the mahogany dining table. "Letters from Central!"

Alphonse's head appeared around the kitchen doorway. Four months of physical therapy and Granny Pinako's cooking had filled out his once sunken cheeks, and he was turning out to be a rather handsome young man. His golden hair had been cut short, and he had put on some weight (too much weight, he would sometimes complain), but instead of the chubby ten year old he used to be, the added tissue and muscle did wonders for his countenance. "From who, Brother?"

"Everyone!"

Precisely three seconds later, the Elric brothers (Al still wearing a ridiculous flower-patterned apron that once belonged to Winry's mother) were systematically picking through the little pile of cards and letters, two pairs of golden eyes devouring the written words – some in black pen, some in blue, and all on military grade paper save for a postcard from Mrs. Hughes.

Edward suspected that, to save on postage, his close friends at Central had decided to bundle up all of their letters into a neat little package and post the entire thing to Resembool. It had been four months, after all, and things were finally starting to calm down in Amestris, so they were asking about his and Al's well-being.

Most of the letters were well-wishes and demands for an update on their sedentary lives in the countryside. There was a joint letter from Brosh and Ross, gleefully telling the brothers about their recent promotion and how the rebuilding in Central was going smoothly. Apparently, in all the chaos after the Promised Day, everyone seemed to have conveniently forgotten that Maria Ross was a wanted fugitive, and with some help from the colonel, her innocence had been proven and she was accepted back into the military as a hero.

Of _course_ Major Armstrong wouldn't have passed on this opportunity to show off his calligraphy skills (which, quote: Have been passed down the Armstrong family for generations!), and had written the brothers a well-wishing card in flowery, cursive hand script. The paper glittered suspiciously with pink sparkles – Edward always had the theory that Armstrong's pixie dust was alchemically concocted, but why or how was completely beyond him.

Even Sceskha, who still kept herself busy reproducing manuscripts and reports, had found some time to write them a messily blotched letter.

Gracia Hughes had sent them a beautiful postcard with an old photograph of Central Command on the front – Edward knew though that the tall, once magnificent structure had been reduced to mere rubble, compliments of Father and his Homunculi, as well as several _*cough*_ rather trigger-happy _*cough*_ alchemists – and its flip side held a short message telling them that all was well and would they swing by the apartment if they happened to be in Central? Attached to the back of the postcard was a glossy picture of Elicia. Al and Ed took a few moments to coo over her cuteness.

At the bottom of the pile were six letters, and Edward could already guess who had written them.

Breda and Falman had kept theirs short, with a suspicious spot of brown on Breda's one which may or may not have been ice cream. Falman's letter was more mysterious, hinting that he had finally met the girl of his dreams in Briggs, but the reconstruction of Central as well as the reorganization of the military itself had kept him and the others in the city proper, by Mustang's side.

Fuery's letter, his words impeccably neat, was much more long winded and cheery, offering them news of the latest betting pool in Central Command – which was apparently whether Black Hayate or Roy Mustang would ultimately win Riza Hawkeye's affection first. It was a betting pool that could get them all shot, obviously, and Ed sniggered at the thought of an infuriated Hawkeye rampaging through Central.

Lieutenant Hawkeye's letter, like herself, was detailed but gentle, reminding both Ed and Al with almost motherly care to not do anything reckless and get themselves killed. She wrote about the team, and how they were all back together again, at least for the time being, while Mustang's plan for the restoration of Ishval finally went into action. The colonel, she explained, was scheduled for a formal meeting with the Ishvalan religious chief this week to finalize the details. Fuhrer Grumman – she added – though Edward had never really met the guy and didn't know what to think of him, was handling the restructuring of the military well, purging the ranks to the very last corrupted officer. It was possible that both herself and the colonel were looking at a double – perhaps triple – promotion soon, to fill in the gaps the corrupted upper echelon had left after King Bradley's defeat. Edward rolled his eyes at that, as he could imagine without difficulty the smug smirk on Mustang's face at _that_ little piece of news.

And then below hers, was a letter from the bastard himself, and Edward didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it was certainly not three short lines of text, the words slightly lopsided as if they had been lazily penned when he was half-asleep over paperwork:

 _I'm sure everyone has been wishing you well, Fullmetal, so I'll forgo the formalities and get down to what's really important. Propose to Winry Rockbell immediately before she regains her senses and realizes that her choice in men is rather...stunted. That's an order._

Edward threw down the piece of paper, his face beet red as he yelled and spluttered obscenities to a man roughly three hundred miles away. Al watched him with an amused look.

"Is that all of them, Brother?" Al asked calmly after Edward was done stomping around the house swearing to the ceiling.

"Yes, that's all. No wait – I think there's one more we haven't read yet..." Ed picked up the final letter with calloused fingers, surprised to see that it was in fact, a photograph, with a short message written behind it.

 _Hey Boss, heard from the Chief that you have some sort of board in Resembool where you pin up all kinds of photos, and thought this would go really well on it (unless of course, you're_ that _determined to forget us all).This was taken a month ago, my first day out of physical and back on duty. We haven't taken a group picture in years, so I thought you would like this one. – Havoc_

Ed waited for Al to finish reading, before flipping it around to reveal the actual photograph.

It mirrored the beloved framed photo of team Mustang that Edward had seen sitting on the colonel's desk for years almost exactly – in fact, the office never seemed complete without it. Edward ran his eyes over each face, taking in the happy smiles and relaxed expressions, thinking in satisfaction that _oh yes, they deserve this._ His gaze lingered the longest on what seemed to be the centrepiece of the photo, the king and his queen, standing side by side, Black Hayate sitting at Hawkeye's feet. The colonel, from his unruly pitch black hair to the blue military uniform, hadn't changed at all in the few months that had passed, though his expression remained uncharacteristically sober and serious.

Ed found himself smiling wistfully, surprised to realize that he _did_ miss them all terribly. For in the years he had worked under Colonel Mustang, his unit were the closest thing both brothers had to family.

"It's nice that everything turned out so well, right?" commented Alphonse, and Ed flashed him a smile. Yes, everything did almost go to hell, but everything also did turn out okay in the end, so that was alright.

Photograph in hand, Edward strode over to the wooden board on the wall just beyond the hall, smirking to himself as he pinned it to a small empty space in between a picture of Edward in his red coat and Al as a suit of armour, and a childhood photograph of Winry. The board was getting increasingly congested.

Ed stepped back to admire his handiwork, frowned, blinked, readjusted the photograph, stepped back, and frowned again.

The unease registered itself as a hollow feeling in his gut, twisting and writhing, making him squirm. Ed scanned the photograph one more time, scouring the faces, wondering if he was simply being hypersensitive, when he saw it.

Ed blinked to make sure he wasn't seeing things. "No, that's impossible..."

"What is?" piped up a curious Alphonse who had appeared at Edward's shoulder.

Instead of answering, Ed snatched the photograph off the wall and flipped it around to check the date it was taken. Then, slapping it onto the table, Edward rushed to the kitchen where they kept their house phone.

"Brother?" Alphonse was getting concerned now. Ed was the very master of overreaction, but this was taking it just a little too far.

"Shush, I need to make a quick phone call." At first Al thought it was the light, but Edward's face was visibly pale now. The older Elric chewed on his bottom lip as he waited for the line to be picked up.

"Brother?" Al's voice was harsh. Worried. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Ed angled his head up, and his golden eyes were pained. "The _colonel,_ Al." As if _that_ explained it all.

While the Elric brothers had a near-perfect understanding of each other, Al often felt the urge to remind his elder brother that no, contrary to popular belief, there was no such thing as Elric telepathy. "What about the colonel?"

Ed hesitated, seeming to weigh his words. "He's not... It's not right, at least, I think..."

"Brother!" Al was exasperated. "You have to be more specific!"

"His _eyes_ , Al." Edward paused. "They weren't the right colour and I swear they were..."

He swallowed.

" _Blank._ "

At this, Al gave a sharp intake of breath.

The line clicked. Before the person even had the chance to properly answer, Ed was already talking almost feverishly into the phone.

"Dr. Marcoh?"

* * *

 _She's sprawled on the floor, red seeping into the dark stones underneath._

No...

 _She's in his arms now, and he doesn't care that his uniform is staining deep scarlet. Her sherry eyes stare up at him. Empty. Soulless._

Nononono.

 _He's holding her close, pressing his chin into the crown of her flaxen hair, as if trying to replace the warmth fleeing from her body with his. It's not fair, he thinks. Because he would give anything to be in her stead, bleeding out on the floor like this. With every rasping breath, he swears he can feel the life drain out of her, drop by drop._

Please, someone... _He tries to cry out, but there's no sound. They're alone, and this time, there's no one to help them._

 _It takes him a moment to realize that the wetness on his cheeks are tears, and he cradles her limp head gently with gloved hands. And he knows that he would have to live with the knowledge that_ he _did this. He killed her._

 _He's not sure if he can move on now that his entire world's been stripped away from him._

Roy Mustang woke in the pitch darkness

For a long moment, the Flame Alchemist just lay there, on the sweat-sodden sheets, trying to regain his breath and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of his bedroom.

They don't, so once his breathing evened out and he didn't feel like the world was about to come crashing down on him, he swung his feet over the edge of the fluffy double bed.

He tripped over something on the floor, banging his shin on the bed frame. Groaning in pain as he rubbed at the bruise that was sure to form by the next hour, he stumbled over something else and fell flat on his face with a loud _crash!_

"Ow..." He muttered helplessly, voice muffled by the carpeted floor. Oh, if Fullmetal were here to witness this, Roy would never hear the end of it.

Carefully, slowly, Roy picked himself off the floor and groped his way in the general direction of his bedroom door. His hands hit the wall first, and he felt along its smooth surface until his fingers snagged against the light switch.

 _Flip._ Nothing. His world was still completely dark.

Frowning, he played with the switch a few more times before his dream-addled brain finally caught up with reality.

 _I'm surprised you can see me when it's so pitch dark, Fullmetal._

His heart sank, and he sank with it, leaning heavily against the wall.

 _Of course. I can't see anymore._

Roy shut his eyes, if only to pretend for the moment that he was not completely sightless. His sight... The toll he had paid to see the Truth. The toll he had been _forced_ to pay when Pride had manoeuvred his body against his own will to perform human transmutation.

But he would also be lying if he said he hadn't deserved it. Forced or not, this could simply be his retribution for all the terrible things he had done since obtaining flame alchemy. All the lives and homes he had destroyed. Perhaps this was only fitting. Perhaps this was the principle all alchemists lived by.

Equivalent Exchange.

A sharp knock on his door startled him.

"Sir?" The voice was muffled, but it was one that he would recognize anywhere. The mere sound of it sent a new burst of warmth through him, reminding him that _yes, she's alright. She's here and she's alive._ "Sir, are you alright? I heard a crash."

"It's nothing, Lieutenant." He called back through the closed door.

A brief pause. "Can I come in? Are you decent?"

Roy's hand automatically flew to his bare chest, and he was painfully reminded that he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. Feeling his face go hot (this was ridiculous! Roy Mustang does not _blush_ ), he sprang to his cupboard and groped blindly around its contents till his fingers found the rough fabric of a T-shirt.

He was never going to get used to this. Riza Hawkeye sharing his home.

Sure it was still a strictly _professional_ relationship, and she was merely there to take care of him because she didn't trust anyone else but herself to do so, and Roy was still too proud to reveal to anyone but her how truly vulnerable he was.

He should start making a point of wearing more clothes to bed. It would be terribly awkward and embarrassing if his subordinate should burst into his room and find him half-naked and sprawled most inelegantly on the floor.

"Come in!" He barked, hastily slipping the T-shirt on over his head.

There was the soft click of the doorknob turning, and Roy could hear footsteps approaching him. And even though he couldn't see her, he could still imagine her walking into his room – dressed in casual pajamas perhaps, with her blonde hair let down, beautiful sherry eyes calm and steady.

The footsteps stopped directly beside him, and he could almost feel her giving him the once over, making sure that nothing was seriously injured. She was so close that he could smell the alluring scent of jasmine and gunpowder which was unique to her – the former due to the brand of detergent she used, the latter due to her line of work. Roy loved the smell. And right now, it was all he had left.

He wanted, so badly, to lean over and kiss her. To feel the warmth of her lips and make sure that she was truly _there_.

But then he reminded himself of all the reasons he could not, and with difficulty, repressed the urge.

Instead, he asked: "What time is it?"

"0622, sir."

"I'm taking a shower. You should get ready for work yourself."

She was silent for a moment. And he could imagine her nodding her head crisply before suddenly remembering that he can't see. "Yes sir."

* * *

She was never going to get used to this. Sharing Roy Mustang's home.

Sure it was still a strictly _professional_ relationship, and Riza was merely there to take care of him because she didn't trust anyone but herself to do so, and she knew that Roy was still too proud to reveal to anyone how truly vulnerable he was since he lost his sight on the Promised Day. She was thankful that, at the very least, he had been reasonable enough to agree to the arrangement when she had proposed it.

No, if Maes Hughes were still around, Roy would probably be pestered nonstop till he moved into the Hughes household. But since Maes wasn't...

Riza mentally shook the dusty cobwebs of past memories free from her head, reminding herself that her current priority was her colonel. And to protect him she needed to focus. It had already been a difficult enough job even when he still had his sight and the ability to accurately combust his enemies into ashes.

Checking herself in the mirror to make sure that the brilliant blue military uniform was satisfyingly neat, and fixing her hair a little more firmly in its bun, Riza then made her way from her bedroom (or more accurately, Roy's guest room) to check on the colonel.

She found him in the bathroom which was adjoined to his personal chambers, pale skin steaming and pink from a recent hot shower. He was struggling in front of the sink with a razor, and winced when the sharp blade nicked a bit of skin.

Smoothly, she swooped in and snatched the razor from his hand before he could even register that there was someone else in the room. "Permission to assist, sir." She said, but only out of formality, because she wouldn't take no for an answer,

Roy smiled wryly, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I admit it. I was having trouble."

She scolded him to stay still as her nimble hands worked the razor, and like everything else she did, her movements were efficient and no-nonsense. Roy stood straight and stiff, as if he had a metal rod jammed up his spine, but Riza could feel him fidgeting beneath her fingers from the close contact.

Close. So close. She had never thought – never even _dared_ to consider – that she would have all these opportunities to be in such close proximity to him alone. And it was getting harder and harder to ignore the urge to touch and hold him, to put her arms around his waist and press her head to his chest, just to reassure herself that his heart was well and truly beating. For she had come so close to losing him far too many times, and these were the desperate feelings which seemed to govern their entire non-existent relationship.

The times she had to remind herself why ' _them'_ was not a possible concept were becoming more frequent and shorter in between. Understandable, considering that the man now slept in a room directly opposite from hers. And yet this strange, tangible distance between them had never seemed quite so far.

So, as she finished her task and he was bending over the sink to wash off his aftershave, Riza swallowed those unsaid feelings, shovelling them back down her throat and into a secret corner of her heart. She turned away, resolutely ignoring the urge to reach down and kiss him.

"Thank you." Came the quiet reply, and Riza swivelled back around to see Roy staring at her. Not 'staring', exactly, as his dull, glassy eyes were not focused on anything, but he was looking in her direction. And knowing that he wasn't able to see her sent a pang of sadness through her stomach.

She swallowed again, taking a second to make sure that her voice was cool and even. "You don't have to thank me."

"But I want to." He said urgently, taking a step forward but pausing in mid-stride. "No, it's just – how do you even put up with me? When I can't even shave or make a coffee or sign paperwork by myself."

He sounded so dismal, which was so far out of character for the always confident Colonel Mustang that Riza didn't know how to react. "But you will find a way to get your sight back. I'm sure of it." She forced a smile into her words. "And till then, I'll be here to watch both your back and your front, at least for the time being."

This elicited a wry smile from Roy. What she didn't mention was that she was ready to do this forever without complaint, if she needed to.

She went down the stairs of the colonel's modest townhouse and into the kitchen to get the coffee brewer going.

When she returned to the living room, Riza found Roy, dressed in full uniform, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes closed as the early morning sunlight washed over him, highlighting the many dark creases and deep lines of his tired face.

She paused, the mug of steaming coffee still in her hands (because Roy couldn't even pour his own coffee without spilling the brown liquid all over the kitchen counter). If only to pretend for a moment that he was not completely blind, that they had all emerged from the battle against the Homunculi unscathed.

He opened his eyes, blank and grey and unseeing, and the illusion was broken.

Riza handed him his coffee and straightened his jacket. After three months of practice, Roy was getting rather good at putting on his uniform without any major disasters. She smoothed out his tousled obsidian hair, knowing that he never bothered to run a comb through the messy strands.

"Are you ready to go?" asked Riza.

"Mm, maybe in another five minutes."

So Riza stood and watched as Roy put the rim of his cup carefully to his lips. The most terrifying thing, she decided then, was that his eyes could no longer burn and spark like they used to. The fire which had once brightened his face was now absent, and because of that, his expression looked nothing more than a blank mask.

She missed those sharp, bright eyes of pure black.

But Riza Hawkeye also believed that the fire of ambition and determination which made Roy Mustang who he was were still alive and burning, somewhere out of sight.

She had to believe that he hadn't given up.

She had to believe that somewhere in the darkness, that flame could still burn.


	2. Chapter 2 - Return

**Wow! Thanks for all of the follows/reviews (I quite literally squealed in Physics class when my first review pinged up on my email). So I'm dedicating this chapter to my first five followers: Lixx22, Couple of Luck, WaywardTuesdays, TheWindwalker and meowchow.  
**

 **On another note, I'll be updating this every weekend (Saturdays or Sundays), so as long as life is kind to me and nothing comes up, I hope I'll be able to stick to my schedule. Oh, and a quick note regarding Mustang's reference to the word 'Fullmetal' - apparently in Japanese, 'Fullmetal' (or Hagane), is used to describe stubborn people.**

 **Thanks again and leave a review if you liked it!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own FMA (or there would be an entire series on Ed's future children).**

* * *

 _Chapter 2 – Return_

For most people, it was easy to forget that Colonel Roy Mustang was completely blind.

Even just a short week after the Promised Day, the busy silhouette of the infamous colonel was already a common sight around Central Command, especially in his office (which fortunately, was mostly spared from the destruction). The Flame Alchemist was, after all, notorious for charming his way out of hospitals.

Very early on, he had refused a cane or a walking stick, stubbornly insisting that he could walk perfectly fine by himself, thank you very much. And by some miraculous combination of photographic memory and pure instinct, Mustang could make his way from his office to any other room all the way to the cafeteria, and back again alone and everyone would be none the wiser.

Not that Hawkeye would ever let him off without at _least_ one escort.

Today, like any other working day, was no different, and the sight of Mustang striding down the corridor with his usual airs and graces, Hawkeye trailing closely behind him with a stack of folders in her arms, elicited no more than the few customary salutes and soft greetings of good morning.

Hawkeye eyed her superior's back like well, a hawk, for no matter how many times he loudly stated that he could do this without assistance, the occasional banging into a wall or open door could still happen.

"Sir –" she started.

"Not today, Lieutenant."

But Riza Hawkeye was not to be waived so easily by that clipped tone. " _Sir._ " She said meaningfully in her ' _stop and listen before I make you with my gun_ ' voice. "I just thought that there was something we needed to discuss before we enter the office."

Mustang stopped dead in his tracks. "Now?" he asked, and despite his efforts, he did sound like a whiny two year old.

" _Now._ " answered Hawkeye firmly.

Mustang hesitated for a second, before his shoulders slumped in defeat and he turned around to face her. "What?"

They were currently standing in a rarely used corridor, which was nearly deserted during the early hour. An occurrence that was no accident if Hawkeye had anything to say about it.

Hawkeye took a long breath and blew it out, steeling herself for what was going to be a very difficult argument. They had been skirting around the subject for _weeks_ as if it were a burning hot coal, but she knew as well as he did that they couldn't put it off any longer. "Colonel Mustang," she started. "Regarding your scheduled visit to Sersa. I don't think –"

"That I should go, I know." finished the colonel, his face betraying nothing. But to a trained eye like Riza's, the slight tightening of his eyes and mouth betrayed his true inner turmoil.

"Yes…" said Hawkeye cautiously. She knew she was stepping on thin ice. "But I'm not saying that the Ishvalan Restoration Program should be put off. I'm just suggesting that maybe there's another...a better way that does not involve putting yourself at such risk."

"And what 'risk' are we talking about here, exactly?"

Hawkeye pursed her lips and set down her stack of folders on the floor to better cross her arms. "Oh I don't know. Let's do a roll call, shall we? With Sersa being the closest inhabited town next to old Ishval on the Eastern border, many Ishvalan people who want to be close to their country are hiding in its slums. And then there's _you,_ with your reputation as the Flame Alchemist… Colonel, that part of Amestris is overrun by Ishvalan rebel groups. Which means that roughly half of Sersa's population wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet through you. Even I – Even I am not certain I'll be able to protect you in a situation like that."

"You're not _certain?_ " he said evenly. "Tell me, _Lieutenant_ , the real reason we are having this conversation."

"The real –" Hawkeye stopped herself before she could go any further. There was a long beat of silence.

"Since you're so unwilling to say it, then I'll say it for you." Mustang's voice was still impossibly even and controlled – a good sign that he was _furious_. "The real reason is that _I_ _can't see_ and you don't trust me to handle myself outside of Central."

Hawkeye bit the inside of her cheek. Roy knew her too well. "Maybe there's a better way."

"Like what?" challenged Mustang.

"You don't have to go all the way to Sersa to confer with the current Ishvalan Grand Cleric. Why can't the official meeting be held at Central instead? No, why can't you send someone else? You'll still be in charge of the program, the Fuhrer promised so, but you don't have to go personally." Hawkeye didn't care that she was grasping at straws at this point. But she had to try.

"It's an issue of _sincerity_ , Hawkeye," said the colonel tightly. "The Grand Cleric lives in Sersa, so I have to go to him. It wouldn't make sense for us to drag him all the way to Central Headquarters, would it? In fact, even if we'd made the suggestion, the Ishvalans would quite simply refuse. And if I myself, who brought this program to the Fuhrer's attention, fail to show up to our very first formal treatise, then what would the Ishvalans think of us Amestrians? Our goal here is to build trust, Lieutenant, not portray ourselves as superior and aloof."

"But –" Hawkeye insisted. If anything, she had never lost an argument to Roy Mustang, and she was not about to start now.

"The _hell_ , Hawkeye!" He almost shouted, clearly losing control of his temper. For a moment, Hawkeye stared at him, stunned, as Mustang rubbed the bridge of his nose, his expression of anger melting into guilt.

He closed his unseeing eyes, sighed deeply, and opened them again. "Riza, I'm sorry."

Mustang almost never called Hawkeye by her first name, causing her to visibly start in surprise.

"You, of all people, should know how much this means to me," he said quietly, almost pleadingly. "So just…please, I _have_ to do this."

Hawkeye bit her lip. Now she knew that it was impossible to win, not when he pulled that tone on her – his voice so soft and filled with hidden agony. It was in these moments as rare as solar eclipses, when you caught a glimpse of what was hidden underneath those uncountable layers of smugness and confidence, and realized how truly fragile he was inside.

"…Okay." she said reluctantly, and her voice was so soft that it could have been the echo of a whisper.

But he heard, and that was all that mattered.

"Okay." Mustang repeated absently.

* * *

The last time he was here, he had saved the world.

Edward Elric couldn't help grinning from ear to ear as he swayed down the long, sunlit corridors of Central Command. He had made himself a brand new scarlet cloak with the black Flamel emblazoned on its back – for the sake of old times. And the fact that red was just such a badass colour. He had also chosen to wear his golden hair in its customary braid today instead of the casual ponytail he had grown used to in Resembool. All in all, Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, had returned in full swing.

Alphonse trailed behind him more docilely, shaking his head and rolling his eyes subtly at his brother's antics.

Ed wore a large smile on his face as fellow officers saluted him smartly and female staff members swooned at his feet. Oh, he certainly wouldn't mind visiting Central now and then. He could get used to the attention.

Then he was reminded of his real purpose for jumping on that last minute train yesterday evening and sitting through the bumpy seven hour ride, and his smile faded into a scowl. The bastard better be _very_ thankful for this.

Edward stopped in front of the familiar office door, and took a deep breath. _Just act normal._

Then he raised his automail leg and kicked the door open with all the cheerfulness he could muster. "I'm BACK!"

His words were accentuated by the resonating _bang!_ of the door slamming against the wall, leaving yet another doorknob-shaped hole in the already heavily abused concrete.

Edward paused in the doorway, striking a dramatic pose as four pairs of human eyes, plus one pair of canine eyes, blinked at him.

Al edged out behind his brother, holding up his hand and smiling meekly. "Hi guys."

The office erupted into pure chaos.

" _Edward!_ " Four voices chorused in varying degrees of surprise and elation.

"What are you doing here?" cried Kain Fuery, standing up so abruptly in his excitement that the delicate machine he had been working on toppled off his desk and ended up on the floor with a crash.

"Edward," said Heymans Breda around a mouthful of his breakfast sandwich. "You should've called! We could have sent someone to meet you at the train station."

"And is that Alphonse?" said Vato Falman in that quiet way of his. "My, you look well."

Black Hayate yipped in agreement.

And as everyone commented on how healthy Al looked since four months ago, the younger Elric blushed from the attention. While being a suit of armour had its perks, others rarely complimented him on his outward appearance – for, what was there to say about a massive suit of armour?

"Yo Boss," grinned Jean Havoc widely, reclining in his chair with a cigarette in his mouth and his boots on the table. An act he would only dare perform when Hawkeye wasn't in the room. "How are ya?"

"Great." Edward found his lips stretching into a broad smile. _Family._ "Is the self-absorbed bastard around or did he decide to slack off today?"

Ed's pet nickname for Mustang seemed to be mutual knowledge within his unit, so no one so much as flinched at it. Havoc plucked his cigarette from his lips, squashed its glowing tip in the ashtray on his desk, and pointed it at the closed door of the inner office. "The Chief's in there, Ed. You looking for him?"

"Hmph." Ed narrowed his eyes, feeling his stomach boil with anger at the complete _idiocy_ of said colonel. And what he was _really_ here to do, was smash his smug face into his beloved table – repeatedly – until he regained his senses. "Just thought we should have a chat."

"Brother." Al scolded softly, recognizing the dangerous edge to his voice. "No fighting with the colonel."

"I'll decide that for myself once I see how much of a jerk he still is, Al." replied Ed promptly, striding up to the double doors determinedly and kicking it down with his automail leg for optimal force.

 _BANG!_ Another hole made in the wall.

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye paused in her reading of Mustang's schedule to glance up, and her stern sherry eyes lit up with a warm glow.

But before she could say anything, a casual, drawling voice interrupted her. " _Fullmetal._ Mind the furniture, will you?"

Ed's eyes travelled from Hawkeye to the black haired man sitting in the chair behind the familiar wooden table. He laid his elbows on its surface and strung his fingers together, cocking his head with an amused smirk adorning his features. Some people – most of them young women – would comment that those features were irresistibly handsome. But after four years of working under him and getting acquainted with his various flaws and behavioural defects, Ed found that his face in general was supremely annoying.

" _THAT'S IT?_ " shouted Edward heatedly. He had already been prepared to burst in raging and screaming, but was _not_ prepared for that cool countenance. "I come back after four months and _THIS IS THE FIRST THING YOU SAY?_ "

"Fullmetal," said Mustang with mock seriousness. "You're not military anymore, so any damage caused to government property is no longer my responsibility. Let's see how eager you are to wrought destruction once you receive the bill. Hmm…I do wonder, are you even _tall_ enough to reach your mailbox –"

" _WHO ARE YOU CALLING A RUNT SO TINY HE CAN ONLY BE SEEN WITH A MAGNIFYING GLASS, YOU NARCISSITIC BASTARD!_ "

Mustang simply smirked away while Edward stomped his feet and screamed his throat raw. "Ah…just like the old times."

Ed stopped mid-rant when a sudden thought struck him. "Hold on…" Rage suddenly gone, he approached the colonel cautiously, scanning his face. _But Dr. Marcoh told me…_

"How did you know it was me?" he demanded. "Before even Hawkeye said anything."

"Well Fullmetal," drawled Mustang in that deep baritone voice, swivelling his chair around to mime studying his fingernails. "There are only two people in the world that would kick down my door like that, and only one of them has a metal leg. Besides," he cocked an eyebrow. "I heard all the shouting."

Edward scowled and muttered more obscenities under his breath.

"Ed," said Hawkeye pleasantly, with the exasperated air of a mother pulling two squabbling children apart. "This is a surprise. How are you?"

Ed stopped scowling for a moment to smile. "Great, thank you. Winry and Al are doing great too. So life is well…great."

Mustang snorted. "Great to hear that, Fullmetal."

Ed immediately went back to scowling. "Which reminds me of the reason I'm here."

Striding up to the colonel's table, he leaned forward as far as he could, his stomach pressing into its hard edge. Raising one hand, Ed experimentally swiped it back and forth about an inch from Mustang's face.

Save for a bored " _What do you think you're doing, Fullmetal?_ ", Mustang didn't blink.

Edward leaned back, his elevator shoes dropping heavily onto the floor. His stomach sank. "So it's true."

Mustang's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "You mean the fact that I'm blind? Yes, Fullmetal, in case you didn't notice the first time."

Edward's temper flared again, hotter than before. "THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, COLONEL BASTARD? I ONLY LEFT BECAUSE I _THOUGHT_ MARCOH'S PHILOSOPHER'S STONE GAVE YOU YOUR SIGHT BACK! YOU LYING, SCHEMING LITTLE PIECE OF –"

"Edward," said Hawkeye calmly, but the Elric didn't miss the swift, casual drop of her hand to the large gun on her waist. "Language."

"BUT I WASN'T –"

"Exactly, Fullmetal," said Mustang pleasantly. "And could you tone the volume down while you're at it?"

"You too, sir. Stop patronizing him."

"But I wasn't –" Mustang stopped in mid-sentence and pouted instead.

Edward sighed in irritation and rubbed his forehead. "Just – _why?_ Why didn't you tell me? Hells, why didn't you just let Marcoh _cure_ you –"

"Fullmetal." Mustang stopped him with a hand raised in the air. Ed usually didn't give a crap about following his instructions, but Mustang's tone was sober enough that he obligingly shut up for once. "You're right."

Edward blinked. _No. The world must be coming to an end, because Mustang's actually admitting that I'm_ right _._

"We should talk," the colonel agreed in a more placid manner. "Just not here."

Edward stared at him in confusion before he caught Hawkeye's meaningful gaze.

She angled her head to the side, directing Ed's attention to the outer office, where all the other members of team Mustang plus Al were watching their bickering match.

Ed turned around slowly and crossed his arms, well and truly deflated.

"Yes, let's go talk."

* * *

Nothing could beat Granny Pinako's cooking, but Central Command's cafeteria came pretty darn close.

The Elric brothers sat at the end of the long table, identical bowls of steaming vegetable stew laid out in front of them. Alphonse smacked his lips in anticipation – about to cross another delicacy off his Things-To-Eat-When-I-Get-My-Body-Back list.

Mustang had his forehead scrunched up in concentration as he speared a small piece of spinach quiche off his plate and carefully, very carefully, raised it to his mouth.

He chewed, swallowed, and sat back, a contemplating look on his face. "You know Fullmetal, now that you're not technically a State Alchemist, you shouldn't even be getting free cafeteria food."

Edward grinned smugly. "What can I say? I'm still the Hero of the People."

Mustang chose to wisely ignore this as Ed started chomping down his stew. Instead, he said: "Alphonse, how are you enjoying your stew?"

The younger Elric sibling started in the middle of swallowing. He couldn't even be sure if the colonel had spoken to him – the raven-haired man was staring straight ahead with half-lidded eyes.

Al noted the milky sheen across his usually pitch black irises, turning them a strange, unnatural shade of dark grey or blue. He pressed his lips together, suddenly losing his appetite.

Brother was correct. It was simply not _right_ , seeing the colonel like this.

"Yes, Colonel Mustang." Al answered softly, staring down at the murky green mass. "It's…very good."

The older man smiled, turning his head slightly in the direction of Al's voice, but his blank gaze went straight through him. "I don't believe I had the chance to congratulate you yet. On getting your body back."

Al flushed red. It was still a strange sensation, feeling that fiery burst of warmth instead of the cold core of his armour. "Thank you, sir. But really, Brother did all the work."

"Hey!" protested Edward, his words mangled due to his mouthful of stew. "How come you're so nice to Al?"

"Because he's polite and civilized, Fullmetal, which is something I don't expect you to understand." Mustang's lips twisted into his trademark smirk. "Besides, he calls me _sir._ "

Al's eyes glanced at the quiche still sitting largely uneaten on the colonel's plate. He thought it was his favourite food.

Ed snorted indignantly. "The day I call you 'sir' is the day hell freezes over."

Mustang shrugged. "You've been honourably discharged from the military, Fullmetal. The days of trying to get you to show me some basic respect have passed."

Ed rolled his eyes in his usual Edward Elric way, but to a trained observer like Alphonse, the slight pulling of skin at the corners of his eyes betrayed the hurt he felt at those words which he would never admit.

Al stared at his lap. _That's not true, Colonel. He does_ _respect you._

"Then why do you still call me Fullmetal?" said Edward, feigning nonchalance. Al didn't miss the way his brother's eyes darted nervously to Mustang and back to his stew. "You said it yourself, I'm no longer the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Mustang seemed to consider this for a moment. "You…" he said slowly. "Will always be Fullmetal to me."

Edward blinked, but before he could think of a response to _that_ , Mustang added casually: "After all, I have never met a more stubborn and obnoxious pipsqueak in my entire life. It's the perfect name for you."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A PIPSQUEAK SO SMALL THAT HE HAS TO USE A HIGHCHAIR TO REACH THE TABLE!"

"Brother." Alphonse said disapprovingly. It was almost an automatic response by now.

However, Edward didn't look ready to stop, and half of the cafeteria's lunch occupants were looking at them in amazement now. Probably the newbie half. To veterans, the Fullmetal Alchemist yelling at Colonel Mustang was certainly no strange sight in the military.

Figuring that he'd better switch his brother's focus onto something other than punching Mustang, Al quickly interjected: "Colonel, you brought us down here to talk, right? Brother and I were just hoping to get some answers. That's why we're here."

There was a moment of silence as Edward plopped back down into his seat.

"There's nothing much to say, really." Mustang broke the silence first, drawing geometrically inaccurate circles on the table with his index finger. "Didn't Marcoh tell you?"

"Tell me what?" asked Edward in irritation.

"Well, Brother," said Al reasonably. "You _did_ slam the receiver down before Dr. Marcoh could get past the first sentence."

Edward made a flustered sound between a guilty denial and an apology.

"Why did I ever expect more from you, Fullmetal?" said Mustang in exasperation. He paused, seeming to gather his thoughts. "You know the beginning of the story, don't you? How I agreed to Dr. Marcoh healing my sight using the Philosopher's Stone?"

Edward nodded absentmindedly. He knew full well, Alphonse was certain of that – it had been his brother who had tracked down the alchemist doctor and the Philosopher's Stone which had once been in Al's possession in the first place, and Dr. Marcoh needed absolutely no convincing to agree. This was the secret kept from even Mustang himself. His brother said he didn't want the colonel feeling like he owed Edward anything, for it would just make their entire commanding officer-subordinate relationship needlessly awkward. But Al knew – in fact, almost anyone who paid even the least bit of attention to the forever arguing duo knew – that their relationship stretched far deeper than the simple definition of boss and staff.

"Yes, you told me about that. When I visited you in your hospital room the day before I left for Resembool." Edward reminded him.

"So you also know that I requested Marcoh to fix Lieutenant Havoc's condition before he fixed mine, I assume?"

"Yes," said Edward rather impatiently. "Can you please just get to the point?"

Mustang sighed. "The point is, the Philosopher's Stone disintegrated after it was used to mend Havoc's spine."

 _Beat._

Edward opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head in disbelief. This may be one of the first ever times Al had seen his brother deemed _speechless._ "But _how?_ " was all he could muster.

"The 'how' is easy to answer," continued Mustang coolly, as if this were just another mission briefing on a normal Thursday afternoon. "You know as well as I do that the way to kill a Homunculus is to repeatedly use up its Philosopher's Stone until it stops regenerating. Same theory applies. The Stone simply ran out of juice before I could get my turn."

"But –" Ed rubbed his temples as if trying to ward off a migraine of epic proportions. "How – I mean, it's the _Philosopher's Stone._ The perfect element. It's not supposed to run out that easily."

But Alphonse knew the underlying meaning beneath his brother's words. It seemed a common trait in the people who surrounded the Elric brothers, hiding their true words behind superficial ones.

What Edward really wanted to say was the exact same thing he had said that day in Father's lair.

 _How was this so_ unfair _?_

"The Stone only has as much power as the number of human souls used in its making," mused Mustang. "According to Marcoh, the stone used to belong to Kimblee. And if it was an experimental product created during the Ishval war in the Fifth Laboratory, it probably does not contain that many lives. Besides, Kimblee used it heavily during the Ishvalan extermination and after that, when he was released. I'm not surprised it eventually ran out after a heavy alchemical operation such as fixing a spine."

"And I used it too," said Al quietly, shamefaced.

"None of this is your fault, Alphonse," said Mustang sternly, but not unkindly.

"And that's why you didn't want to discuss this in the office," realized Edward. "With _Havoc_ just sitting right around the corner."

Mustang shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back in his seat. "He knows I'm not blaming him for any of this either, but," he shook his head. "I seem to be surrounded by people adept at putting themselves at fault."

Al himself had trouble absorbing all this information. "But Colonel, then why…why didn't you let _us_ know? We could have helped."

Mustang cocked his head sideways. "Because," he said simply. "There was no need to."

"No _NEED_?" Edward raised his voice, but not in anger, rather in…guilt?

"Yes," repeated the colonel levelly. "There was no need to drag you two from your happy lives in Resembool over a mess _I_ got myself into. Besides, let's be honest here, Fullmetal. When I'm in trouble, the last person I call is _you_. That's just the way it works."

Ed seemed to alternate between biting his lip and tugging at his bangs in agitation. Sadly, it was a plain fact that neither brother could argue with – Edward had never called the colonel all those countless times he was banged up and admitted to the hospital, and neither had the colonel found reason to call Edward whenever _he_ was admitted due to an assassination attempt or a skirmish with a Homunculus.

That was just the way it worked.

"Then..." Ed took a deep breath, and Al could almost see steam puffing out from his ears as the gears and cogs in his brother's brilliant brain began to turn. He suddenly clapped his hands, and for a moment Al thought he was about to transmute a Philosopher's Stone out of thin air before remembering that Ed could no longer perform alchemy.

"I know!" Ed banged the heel of his palm against his forehead as if he couldn't believe he'd missed something so obvious. "It's so simple!"

Mustang sighed in resignation, planting his chin on top of steepled fingers with the air of a man who was used to listening to his subordinate's crazy ideas and rebutting every last one of them after. "Let's hear it."

"We'll take you to Xing!"

"And _why_ , may I ask, would I cross the goddamned desert just because you told me to?"

Ed, for once, ignored the sarcastic edge to Mustang's voice. "Because the only other person I know in possession of a working Philosopher's Stone is Ling Yao!"

Mustang visibly froze.

Ed didn't seem to notice. He was out of his seat and pacing now, the bounce in his step betraying how enthusiastic he felt about his plan. "It's perfect! Ling has the only Philosopher's Stone we know about, and I'm sure he'll be more than happy to –"

"No." That single word was so forceful that Ed actually stopped in mid-stride.

The young protégé whirled around. "What?"

"You heard me, Fullmetal. _No._ "

Ed promptly exploded. " _WHAT?_ Now you're just being an idiot, Mustang. Don't you _want_ to get your sight back?"

"Of course I do," replied Mustang adamantly. "Just – Not _now._ "

"Why the hell not?"

"Firstly, why would the future Emperor of Xing be willing to sacrifice a portion of his Philosopher's Stone just to do me a favour?"

"You've met Ling before! He owes you for helping out with Lan Fan! And he owes _me_ for saving his ass and paying for all that food service!"

Mustang pointedly ignored Ed. "Secondly, do you really think that I can just abandon my post for a few weeks? Some people actually have _important_ work to do, Fullmetal. Especially since I'm heading to Sersa tomorrow for the first talks regarding the Ishvalan Restoration Program." he clenched his jaw. "I. Don't. Have. Time. For. This. Fullmetal."

"You're going to _Sersa_?" said Edward in surprise. "Like that town next to old Ishval?"

"Colonel!" Al's voice was a little shriller than what constituted calm. "That place's dangerous!"

Mustang rolled right over their words. "And _thirdly –_ "

He stopped. Just plain stopped.

Al watched in morbid amazement as the colonel's chest heaved in and out heavily. He put a hand over his eyes, as if trying to keep the cracks in his coolly indifferent mask from showing.

"Just…no, Fullmetal." Al almost had to strain to hear the words.

Edward was too dazed to argue when Mustang abruptly stood up, muttering something about overdue paperwork before stumbling away from the cafeteria.

"W – Wait!" Alphonse's chair screeched against the floor as he shot to his feet. "Lieutenant Hawkeye said that we have to accompany you back!"

Mustang didn't turn around.

The brothers exchanged a rattled look, before scrambling after the colonel's rapidly retreating back.

* * *

The alchemically repaired marble staircase leading up to the main entrance of Central Command glowed red in the failing light of dusk, highlighting two darkened figures sitting on the top step.

The Elric brothers had been chased out of the office about an hour ago, with Hawkeye stating that they were holding up productivity and (more gently) that they should find a place to stay before traffic got too bad.

Edward was watching the sun set, his knees pulled up to his chin. He knew that they should leave before work let out and they were swarmed by military officials going home for the day, but he just couldn't find the energy to do so.

Various emotions flitted through his head, making his chest constrict every so often. He was even too tired to decide on which emotion to land on – alternating between anger, hurt, irritation and guilt. And a general loathing for himself and his naivety, for how could he have been so stupid as to assume that everything would be okay after he went back to Resembool? How was it fair for him to be happy and content with Winry and Al, while someone else had been suffering outside of his knowledge?

He couldn't even decide whether he was truly angry with Colonel Flamethrower. But he didn't feel anger really…more of a strange hurt that he couldn't understand. Edward wondered if this was how he would feel if Alphonse had decided to perform human transmutation while Ed was away on a long vacation, lost his body, somehow attached his own soul to a suit of armour, and sat around in their old house until Edward found him, miserable and wretched, a month later.

Except that Al wouldn't do that to him. But Mustang would. Because he was right, and they weren't _anything_ to each other, so why should Edward care?

"Damn it." Ed cursed, and kicked an unfortunate pebble which just happened to be sitting next to his shoe. It clattered down the steps and rolled away. "Damn it, Al. What happens to that self-absorbed jerk with a stick up his arse is none of my business. I should just leave him here and go home. Let him figure it out by himself."

"Except you won't, right Brother?" Al stated almost a matter-of-factly.

Edward sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This is just…" he considered his words for a moment. "This is just Equivalent Exchange, right? I mean, no matter how much of a jerk he is, he helped me out once, so I'm just returning the favour. That's all, isn't it?"

Al looked at his brother in amusement. "If you say so, Brother."

Ed nodded firmly to himself. "Yes, that's all." he glanced sideways at Al. "Did you do that thing I asked you to?"

"Havoc let slip that their train leaves at nine tomorrow morning."

Ed grinned and stood up, stretching his stiff back. "I guess that's that, then. You coming with me, Al?"

"You know the answer to that," replied Alphonse. And, more quietly, he added: "And he's my colonel too."

Edward rubbed his hands together and clapped them once for good measure. "Good. Then let's go save Colonel Bastard's ass one last time."


	3. Chapter 3 - Train

**Author's Note:**

 **To thank you all for the awesome support, here's a chapter a day early *grin*. A shout out to the new followers of this story: DarkFlameFantasy, L-daria, MichiJace12, Skjalda, menabkewl, paladin17, sincity27 and superstar072299 (I may actually make a habit out of this).**

 **This chapter is dedicated to Lixx22, my best friend in real life who actually listens when I rant random stuff about FMA even though she has no idea what's going on.**

 **As always, would love to hear your thoughts, so review please ~**

 **(Do. Not. Own.)**

* * *

 _Chapter 3 – Train_

Roy leaned his head against the wooden panelled wall, feeling the persistent rumbling of the engine in the form of vibrations from the point of contact all the way down to his toes. The smell of heavy smoke permeated the air through the open window… It was times like this, when his senses started to go into overdrive, that he was reminded he was alive.

A hand reached into his side pocket instinctively, brushing against the cool metal surface of the silver pocketwatch chained to his belt. He paused halfway through the motion and shook his head, smiling wryly. Old habits die hard.

"What time is it?" he asked no one in particular.

"0825, sir." replied Hawkeye's voice somewhere across from him.

Roy grunted in acknowledgement, and busied himself by pulling on and pulling off his ignition gloves for no concrete reason. Not that he used them very often nowadays, in the midst of Central, where he could very possibly send a whole building of people up in flames if he wasn't careful. Especially since he had close to no sense of direction whatsoever after losing the ability to see.

The train whistle blew, and he winced as the sound tore through his eardrums.

The engine churned and coughed, and there was a lurch beneath the soles of his feet that nearly sent him into the wooden table wedged in between the two face-to-face seats.

Roy frowned to himself, still fiddling with his gloves, as he felt the train moving out of the station.

"Disappointed, sir?" asked Hawkeye calmly.

He turned around in her direction, the frown deepening. "No, not in the slightest. The Fullmetal brat would just get in my way – I'm glad, no, I'm absolutely _ecstatic_."

"I didn't say anything about the subject of your disappointment being Edward, sir." said Hawkeye in that cool, efficient manner of hers. But if Roy could see, he was certain that there was a small, bemused smile playing on her lips right about now.

He growled a vague denial and went back to the task of wearing out his gloves.

 _CRACKLE – SWOOSH – THUMP!_

Roy automatically jerked out of his seat in surprise as _something_ landed, hard, on top of the train's metal roof. His gloves were already yanked on and his fingers poised to snap before he knew it, although there was little to no possibility of him using flame alchemy in his current state.

Across from him, he could hear the efficient cock of Hawkeye's gun and a rustle of clothing as she moved to stand in front of him. "I saw the flash of a transmutation –"

There was a heavy metal _crash_ that sounded like a section of the roof ending up on the floor. Even if none of the other passengers on board had heard the earlier thump, _this_ certainly was flashy enough to catch their attention and a few shouts of surprise resonated down the coach.

"What is it, Hawkeye?" Roy demanded, cursing, not for the first time, the fact that he was almost completely useless in such a situation. "What happened?"

Hawkeye remained silent, either out of confusion or astonishment at what she was seeing.

"Lieutenant –"

Before Roy could get any further however, a thunderous, ear-splitting voice crashed into the interior of the coach from somewhere above them, the whipping wind carrying some of the words away. But Roy got the message.

"I SWEAR I AM GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU LYING, DECEIVING, TWO-FACED – LIAR!"

"Very creative, Fullmetal." said Roy as dryly as he could, as if he had expected this all along. "Losing your touch?"

There was the muffled sound of thick-soled boots landing on worn wood, and angry footsteps stomped towards him.

"OH I'LL SHOW YOU WHO'S LOSING HIS TOUCH ONCE I PUNCH IN YOUR FACE –"

Roy wisely decided to retreat behind the comforting presence of his gun-toting lieutenant just in case the half-crazed teenager decided to make good on his threat. However, one who knew Colonel Roy Mustang well would notice the small smile which tugged at the corners of his lips, and the laughter he was hastily shoving back down his throat.

* * *

Edward, still fuming but effectively placated by the threat of being shot and thrown off the train, glared murderously at the tall colonel sitting across from him, but the satisfaction that act usually provided him was somewhat dulled by the fact that said colonel simply stared unseeingly back.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," said Alphonse guiltily, who had opted to sit beside Mustang because his brother had a window-seat fetish (and Mustang wasn't about to give up his own prime position anytime soon). "We may uh…have left…something at Central station that you may want to get rid of."

"And what might this 'something' be, Alphonse?" asked Hawkeye, who sat facing the younger Elric, sherry eyes completely devoid of humour and arms deftly crossed.

Al shot a nervous glance at where Hawkeye usually kept her gun – hidden from his line of sight by the table in between them – and gulped. Since he was no longer a suit of armour, his bulletproof-ness had decreased somewhat. "Um, well…"

Edward, sensing his younger brother's nervousness, came to the rescue. "Oh it's nothing serious," he said lazily, swiping his hand in the air. "Just an earthen platform Al transmuted on the tracks to catch up to the train."

"Imagine the delay that is going to cause at the station." Mustang unsuccessfully tried to hide a snigger behind a gloved hand. "Shame on you, Fullmetal."

"Don't try to put the blame on me, Colonel Bastard. If you hadn't told Havoc to give us the wrong time on _purpose –_ " started Edward hotly.

An epic competition of insults and name-calling ensued, with Hawkeye and Al exchanging exasperated but fond glances.

"I'll ask Fuery to send Major Armstrong a wire to fix your…transmutation." said Hawkeye, still giving Alphonse a look which clearly stated that she was _not_ impressed by his actions.

Al nodded and offered her an apologetic smile. "Sorry?"

Hawkeye stared him down for a moment longer to make sure the lesson had been thoroughly cemented, before plucking a small radio from her waist. "Fuery, could you come down here?"

A few seconds later, the spectacle-rimmed eyes of the young sergeant appeared over the top of Hawkeye's seat. "Yes?"

"Send a message to Major Armstrong to clean up the Elric brothers' mess at Central Station." instructed Hawkeye. "And status report?"

"Havoc and Breda are in the coach in front of this one on guard duty," reported Fuery, snapping to attention. "Falman and myself are in the coach behind. I'll keep communications up, just in case we need to get in touch with Central."

Hawkeye nodded firmly, satisfied. "Thank you, Fuery."

Fuery shot her a shy smile. His smile widened, however, when they alighted on Alphonse and his older brother (who was still engaged in a heated exchange with the smirking colonel). "Nice of you brothers to tag along, Al. We could use two – uh, I mean an extra alchemist on security detail."

Al cocked his head. "Security?"

Fuery was about to reply when Hawkeye silenced him with a stern look.

"Nothing." he squeaked uncertainly before scurrying off to his post.

Al considered Fuery's words for a moment.

"Have you ever been to Sersa, Alphonse?" asked Hawkeye, her eyes fixed on the undulating hills and crisp green fields rolling past the window.

"No." stated Al. A pause. "Is it really that dangerous?"

Hawkeye tore her amber eyes away from the moving landscape to glance imperceptibly at Mustang. "It's dangerous enough." she said softly. Briefly.

"It'll be alright." Al wasn't sure why he was trying to reassure the lieutenant, who was sitting unmoving and straight in her seat, a stoic statue in full colour. Perhaps it was because he could understand the anxiousness contained in that glance – god knew how many times he had fretted and worried over his own brother whenever he recklessly threw himself headfirst into one life-threatening situation or another. "We'll keep him safe."

Hawkeye rewarded him with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Al."

Alphonse smiled back, and indicated the still-bickering duo who were to blame for giving both of them anxiety attacks on a near regular basis. "Perhaps we should stop them now."

Hawkeye laughed quietly, and it was truly such a beautiful sound that Al thought Mustang should get her to do it more often. "Yes, we should."

* * *

It was common knowledge that geniuses, especially hyperactive alchemical protégés with a tendency for causing destruction when they were bored, needed something mentally engaging if they were to be distracted.

So Al, seeing that both Edward and Mustang seemed to fit into that category, suggested that they play a game to pass the time.

At first, he wanted to suggest 'I Spy', but then eliminated the notion as he didn't want the colonel to feel left out, and his brother would just tease him for being childish anyway.

Surprisingly, it was Mustang who proposed a solution. "Know any chess, Fullmetal?"

Edward scowled suspiciously. "A little."

Nodding, Mustang directed Alphonse to fetch him his small briefcase from the luggage compartment above their heads.

A beautifully carved wooden chess set was produced from it and placed decisively in front of him.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Edward slyly as Hawkeye clicked open the chess set and spread the board out in the middle of the table.

"Of course. Chess is the only game I can play even without seeing." Mustang cocked his head in Hawkeye's direction. "Ironically, this version of it is called _Blindfold Chess,_ and Hawkeye will be my intermediary by relaying all your moves to me."

"No, I meant, are you sure you're ready to _lose?_ "

Mustang raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Since you're so confident that you'll win, Fullmetal, how about we raise the stakes here? If I beat you at chess four times in a row, you'll be my underling for the whole week we're in Sersa. If you beat me even once, I'll do whatever you tell me to for that same amount of time."

Edward raised both his eyebrows. If he won…just once…he could literally _order_ Mustang to go with him to Xing and the colonel wouldn't be able to refuse. And, it came with the added bonus of Mustang waiting on him hand and foot for an entire week.

A broad, mischievous grin stretched across Ed's face. "Deal."

The two men shook on it, and settled down for the game.

Edward chose white, and Mustang black.

Barely ten minutes and five moves later, Edward was swearing like a sailor and Mustang was smirking wider than ever as he drummed his fingers on the table. "Up for another round?"

Ed gritted his teeth. "You're _on._ "

The second match lasted a little longer, stretching on for about forty minutes before Mustang checkmated.

The Fullmetal Alchemist swore some more.

"Again." ordered Mustang, feeling rather pleased with his own clearly superior chess skills.

A curious crowd had gathered around the two alchemists, drawn by the loud chess moves being called out by Mustang and the even louder and more colourful blasphemy courtesy of Edward.

"Queen A6 to E2. Checkmate." An hour and fifteen minutes later, the third game had come to an end, and Mustang wasn't even trying to hide the smug grin on his face now.

"Bloody hell, how am I losing so badly to a blind person?" swore Edward.

"That's just discriminating." said Mustang, feigning hurt as Ed sulkily rearranged the pieces. "Last try, Fullmetal."

The final chess match went on for far longer than anyone expected, as Edward sweated and chewed his thumb over every move and Mustang sat back with a crease adorning his forehead. Al swore that even the colourless wheat in the bland fields rolling past the window collectively held their breath every time one of them made a move to attack or defend.

A remarkable two hours and some impressive manoeuvring later, Mustang managed to corner Ed's King and checkmated.

Edward groaned loudly as the crowd around them clapped and cheered.

"I'll have to say, Fullmetal." admitted Mustang grudgingly. "You're quite good at this. Better than I expected."

"Well," grumbled Edward, though he was accepting the defeat remarkably well. "Don't underestimate me."

"I never underestimate you." And Mustang's tone was so serious and uncharacteristically sincere that Ed's head snapped up.

"I guess…" said Ed reluctantly. "Maybe you can…teach me some of your chess moves next time?"

Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Sure, Fullmetal. But first, go get me a coffee from the dining carriage." he smirked. " _Underling._ "

Edward swore words that would make even the most seasoned sea-goer blush, and then just swore, period, a _lot_.

* * *

Night was the only time his demons could haunt him, breaking past the defenses he so carefully erected during his waking hours and infiltrating the depths of his dreams – corrupting, twisting, distorting things he had seen and heard beyond recognition.

And when the things he had witnessed were bloody horrors of gleaming bone and gaping mouths, charred skin and spilled insides… Oh how the nightmares tortured him, how they amplified that terror and gruesomeness and made him _watch_ and scream.

 _Horror, the horror._

He sometimes dreamt of watching, helpless, as the people he cared about died around him, their blood seeping into his very skin and essence – often it was the slim form of Riza lying limp and bloodied in his arms; sometimes it was Fullmetal or Hughes; sometimes it was the dead corpses of his loyal unit piled in a decaying heap; and sometimes, they were all there, their faces warped with hatred and blackened by rot, telling him, again and again that this was all his fault because he had done nothing, _could_ not do anything.

Sometimes he would dream of the seven Homunculi, bringers of death and destruction, their Ouroborus tattoos burning bright red behind his eyelids, their laughter ringing in his ears as he was dismantled, body and mind, piece by piece.

But now there revived an old nightmare, one that he had not experienced since newer, arguably more horrifying things had entered his life, but that the desert air and the distant smell of sand had reminded him of.

In this dream, the world was on fire.

This was hell, he knew – this raging pit of crimson flames which did nothing but blaze and devour. The smell of burning flesh in his nostrils. The screams of the people he had burnt. Mangled figures with white hair and red eyes clawed their way towards him, their brown skin melting from their bones like candle wax as they screamed for mercy.

He was on fire too, a monster, a devil.

He wanted to stop, he wanted to stop so badly, but he couldn't or even worse, _wouldn't._

Why? Why won't it stop?

 _Burnburnburnburn_

Roy jolted awake, breathing heavily in the darkness.

For a moment, it was difficult to tell if he was still asleep or awake – it was often disorientating, when all you could see regardless of whether your eyes were shut or open was pitch blackness.

He held still, waiting for the images of flames and burning flesh to subside and fade away. Nightmares were beginning to become an unbearable curse, for the only time his world did not consist of total darkness, he saw his deepest fears over and over.

If he listened closely, he could hear the faint sounds of snoring (and a particularly loud one from directly in front of him which unmistakably belonged to Fullmetal), as well as the deep, even breaths associated with sleep. They had transitted at East City for an overnight train, and judging by the silence of their coach, it was the dead middle of the night.

He straightened, rubbing the creased skin between his eyebrows. Someone had draped his greatcoat around him at some point in his slumber, and he fingered the thick fabric of its collar.

The windows were closed and it was stuffy in here.

Roy stretched out a cautious hand to his right, finding something fleshy and soft that felt like Alphonse's shoulder. It was strange, as in Roy's mind, the boy still manifested himself as a hulking suit of medieval armour. The colonel prodded him a few more times, and getting no response, slowly eased himself over Al's knees and out of their shared seat.

He paused, ears perked and listening, but Hawkeye must have felt secure enough to nod off herself as no stern voice reprimanded him.

Taking a moment to catch his bearings, he turned right and carefully picked his way down the aisle.

Roy emerged from the carriage and into the cold night air, icy gusts whipping hair into his eyes. His clenched fingers found deposit on the low metal railing, and he was content to stand there in silence, feeling the wind in his face and the clacking of the wheels beneath his feet.

The world felt so large out here, impossibly vast, and he was honestly scared, fearful of having to find his way through this dark space without help. And he hated the feeling, that reliance, the knowledge that he was utterly helpless alone. He had spent his life striving to protect the people surrounding him, and now that he was the one being protected, he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

It was, quite simply, a black tunnel. Except that this time, there was no sight of the light allegedly at its end.

 _So, Colonel Mustang, what will you do now?_

The words came unbidden into his mind.

 _Honestly? I don't know. I am no longer an asset to the military, General Grumman. Perhaps the only thing I_ can _do is retire._

 _Mm, Marcoh's Stone didn't work?_

 _No... Sir._

 _A shame really, Amestris losing two of its most prominent State Alchemists within the space of a week. As future Fuhrer, this certainly is a conundrum to me._

 _That does sound...inconvenient, sir. But I'm sure that there are other equally talented State Alchemists still at your service._

 _But are you really willing, my boy, to give up all your dreams just like that?_

 _What point are dreams that are impossible to fulfil?_

 _Hmm, that does not sound like the Roy Mustang I know. My granddaughter wouldn't be very pleased with you._

 _It's called being realistic, General._

 _And does being realistic mean giving up?_

The heavy metal grating of rusted hinges punctuated his thoughts.

He whirled around reflexively on the narrow platform just as the door opened, and someone's body slammed right into him.

"Umph!" came a muffled cry of alarm in an unfamiliar voice, and Roy nearly jerked back over the railing and onto the tracks as hot fluid soaked into the front of his military jacket.

"Oh heavens! I'm so sorry!"

Roy struggled to regain his bearings as the stranger's voice fluttered strangely around him. "Are you okay? Did I scorch you? Hold on, let me just –"

Roy felt hands swiping at him, grabbing and snagging at his jacket and shirt.

And suddenly, stranded in never-ending darkness and unable to see what was going on, he was back in that hellfire, the blackened claws of his victims reaching for him.

He _panicked_.

Roy quite wasn't sure what happened next. Except that his body reacted before his mind could, and he was bolting in what he assumed to be the direction of the door. His hands reached out in the dark, expecting to find the cool metal surface of the doorknob but grabbing at empty air instead.

The platform was slick with some sort of liquid, and he slipped, pitching forward.

The side of his head slammed into something cold and hard.

And the world fell away into grey haze.

* * *

For him, life in the past four months had been all sunshine and smiles, but that didn't mean his nights were as peaceful.

He sometimes dreamt of that awful moment Alphonse had sacrificed himself to return him his arm. And he would scream and scream as the metal housing of his brother's soul unravelled and crumbled to dust, until it was just his eyes, those burning eyes of red fire, so mournful and filled with despair.

Sometimes, he would dream about his mother, or rather, the black mass of bones and slimy organs writhing on the floor that had cost him his brother and his leg to transmute. And then the _thing_ was in front of him, its foul breath in his face, and he could see down its gaping maw into rows of fang-like teeth. It was moaning, such terrible terrible sounds that bore a horrifying resemblance to his mother's voice: _Why? Why, my sweet boy? Why couldn't you do it_ right _?_

And even now, even after he found out that the monster he had transmuted was not actually his kind, loving mother, the nightmare would still periodically haunt him until he screamed himself awake.

But this night, there emerged a new nightmare, one that ran in the same league as all his other equally terrifying ones.

Edward was back there, on the Promised Day, in the Homunculi lair underneath Central.

He was kneeling on the floor, and his hands were trembling uncontrollably. He clenched them into fists, forcing them to stop, as he stared into a pair of blank grey eyes.

Mustang had his hands pressed to the floor, and his voice echoed around Edward, soft and confused at first, but then louder and louder, reflecting his rising fear.

 _Fullmetal, why is it pitch dark?_

 _Fullmetal?_

 _Edward! Why can't I_ see _?_

And before them, was Father in his grotesque form, the many eyes that floated in his gloopy purple body seeming to blink as he laughed. _Truth truly is God! Giving you humans your suitable forms of despair to prevent you from getting too conceited. Yes, puny human, bask in your agony and accept punishment for your sins!_

"How is that fair?!" screamed Edward, tearing his gaze away from those unseeing eyes to search the surrounding darkness. But Father had vanished, and all that remained was his voice reverberating through the swirl of mist and darkness.

"Those of us who acted on our own initiative certainly deserved it, but someone who wasn't even willing was dragged into human transmutation, robbed of his vision, and you say that's _well-deserved_?" Edward shouted into the gloom, his voice shaking, his throat raw. "Truth is too illogical for me to accept!"

 _Oh? Is that so?_

The new voice made him freeze. No, a thousand voices, plus his own, all at once, speaking as one.

Edward turned around, and there was the white, faceless figure they called _Truth_.

Except this time, he wasn't completely featureless – a pair of black eyes stared back at him condescendingly from the middle of its white head, sharp and keen and full of familiar fire.

Edward felt himself give himself a sharp intake of breath. " _You._ "

 _Yes, me. We meet again, human alchemist._

Terror was replaced by rage. "Give it back!" he yelled. "Give back what you stole!"

 _I did not steal anything. Equivalent Exchange, young alchemist. For me to return these eyes, what are you willing to sacrifice?_

Edward paused, hesitated, felt the cold fear burrow underneath his skin and freeze his heart.

 _I see._ intoned Truth almost sadly, shaking his head in a pitiful manner. _Of course. He means nothing to you._

"Wait! No! I didn't –" cried Edward uselessly.

 _Fullmetal!_

He whirled away from the grinning form of Truth to find Mustang sinking into the floor, tiny black hands pulling and yanking at him as he struggled helplessly.

"Colonel!" Edward dove forward desperately, trying to grasp those blood-soaked gloves.

He missed, and could only watch in absolute horror as Mustang completely disappeared underneath the mass of slithering shadows.

But what Edward remembered most clearly from the nightmare, when he awoke breathless and shivering, clothes sodden with sweat, was the look of pure _disappointment_ on his superior officer's face before he was dragged down into the darkness.

He sat there, resting his forehead against the cool windowpane, shutting golden eyes and opening them again.

It took several minutes for his breathing to regain some semblance of normalcy.

Glancing up and around him to make sure he hadn't screamed in his sleep and woken someone, Edward found the interior of the train dark and eerily silent.

His eyes passed gratefully over Hawkeye's dozing form, her head propped up against the edge of the seat, and lingered a moment more on Al, who had his neck lolled back and a string of drool slipping down the side of his mouth. Then they moved to the seat beside Al, to make sure that Mustang hadn't heard anything embarrassing if Ed had happened to be dream-talking.

Edward froze.

His seat was empty.

Doing a double-take, Ed shot up from his sitting position and glanced frantically around, as if he expected the colonel to suddenly drop down from the ceiling and yell: _Surprise!_

He didn't of course (that would have been doubly more disconcerting), so Ed shuffled his way out of his seat.

He bumped against Hawkeye, who opened bleary eyes. "Edward? Where are you going?"

Edward opened his mouth, about to yell that Mustang was _missing_ and he was about to track down the bastard and give him a piece of his mind before something stopped him.

"It's nothing, Hawkeye. I'm just going to the uh…bathroom."

Hawkeye blinked at him once, before shifting into a more comfortable position and shutting her eyes again. "Okay Edward," she said sleepily, and Ed could only guess at how much these past few months had taken their toll on her. "Is the colonel alright?"

Edward's eyes flitted almost guiltily to the obviously empty seat and forced a smile into his voice. "Just fine. Sleeping like a log."

Hawkeye's only response was a drowsy nod before she drifted back off to sleep.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Edward glanced up and down the aisle.

 _Okay, he can't have gone far. So pick a direction._

Ed did a mental coin toss, and decided on right.

Jumping over stray pieces of luggage as quietly as he could, Edward found himself in front of the metal door that led onto a viewing platform, which was in turn attached to the next carriage.

His hand was already on the doorknob when he heard a muffled cry and the _thump_ of a heavy body collapsing on the floor.

 _What the –_ Hundreds of scenarios involving Mustang and various external dangers ranging from assassins to rabid wolves on a moving train passed through his mind's eye in the space of a second, each more awful than the last.

Heart thumping with adrenaline, Edward kicked in the door and jumped out onto the small platform, fists raised and ready for anything.

 _Except_ this.

Ed's blood turned to ice as wide golden eyes took in the scene before him: Mustang sprawled on the ground, one hand gripping the railing while the other clutched at his head. And standing over him…

At first, all Edward could make out of the tall and lanky figure was his shock of cropped white hair. Then the shadowy silhouette turned around in surprise, and he caught the glint of crimson red irises.

 _Ishvalan._

Edward's gaze scanned those unmistakable features in shock, before landing on the figure's arm, which was outstretched in Mustang's direction, palm down and fingers spread out.

And suddenly the tall Ishvalan before him morphed into a terrifying image of Scar during his serial killing days.

He _panicked._

"Get away from him!" Edward yelled, and before he knew what was happening, had dove and tackled the red-eyed man to the floor.

The platform was narrow, and not meant to be used for three men doing any sort of fighting, so Edward ended up in a very awkward position, half of his automail leg dangling dangerously in empty space as Mustang's assailant flailed and struggled beneath his strong grip.

"Wha – Why – What are you doing?" the Ishvalan spluttered out a string of astonished expressions.

"That's what I should be asking you," growled Ed, the old flame of anger bursting to life within him. " _Talk._ Who are you and why were you trying to kill –"

" _What?!_ No!" moaned the man. "I just spilled my coffee on him! It was an accident, I swear!"

"Fullmetal?" a half-dazed voice sounded to Ed's right, nearly drowned out by the loud rumbling of the train's engine.

Edward risked a short glance in the colonel's direction to make sure that he wasn't bleeding to death. "Hey, Mustang! You okay?"

"Sure I am, I just slipped and hit my head." Mustang, now fully upright and leaning against the railing, rubbed at the side of his scalp. "What are you even doing out here, Fullmetal?"

"What am I –" started Edward in indignation. "What are _you_ doing out here by yourself? If I had been a second later, you would have been a corpse on the side of the road!"

There was a moment of silence as Ed felt his own morbid words sinking in and his brain finally acknowledged the situation. Oh god, oh god that was _close_. What the hell was he going to do if Mustang died? No, what were they _all_ going to do?

Mustang had the nerve to blink in puzzlement. "A corpse?"

"Yes, Colonel Bastard, in case you haven't noticed, you nearly got _killed_ by this Ishvalan." snarled Edward. He was already running on a really short fuse, and his patience for the night had just about been used up.

"An Ishvalan?" Mustang's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "But…But he just…spilled something on me."

It was then that Edward noticed the dark smear over the front of Mustang's blue jacket, and a pool on the floor that smelled suspiciously like coffee.

"Whoa whoa, hold on for a moment there!" protested the Ishvalan still trying to squirm his way out from underneath Edward. "Is _that_ what this is all about? My Ishvalan blood? Look, I'm not a full blood. The last pure blooded Ishvalan in my family was my grandfather."

Edward eyed the back of the man's head suspiciously, but a worm of doubt had started to grow in his mind.

"I swear I wasn't up to anything! I'm a doctor, okay? I work in East City and my credentials are in my coat pocket."

Edward looked up at Mustang, who had a perplexed look on his face. "Just let him go, Fullmetal."

Edward scowled. "He could just be lying so that we would let our guard down."

"I'm not lying! Please, just check my credentials! First pocket on the right."

Still rather doubtful, Ed poked around underneath the man's travel-weary trench coat before pulling out a slip of paper: _Leonardo Blake. Doctor, certified by the Department of Health, Amestris._

"Fine, your identity checks out, at least," muttered Edward reluctantly. "I'm going to let you go now. No sudden moves."

Carefully, Edward pushed himself off the man, who groaned in relief and scrambled to his feet.

Ed watched him with narrowed eyes as the half-Ishvalan man brushed off his coat and trousers. He looked to be around his early fifties and had a rather pleasant face – to be honest, Edward may have liked him on sight had they not met under such unconventional circumstances. A salt-and-pepper beard framed his mouth, and smile-creases shone at the edges of his red eyes.

The man edged forward, and Edward automatically hopped back to stand protectively in front of the colonel, eyes of molten gold burning defiantly. "I said, no sudden moves."

"Fullmetal." Mustang's voice was disapproving. Sighing and running a hand through obsidian hair, he tried for a contrite smile. "My sincere apologies, mister. My uh, young subordinate here seems to be a little jumpy. We're sorry if we may have scared you."

"Oh, not to worry…" said Leonardo Blake slowly, uncertainly. "I guess it was my fault for getting hot coffee all over you in the first place." A pause as he turned to Edward. "Does your superior not look people in the eye while speaking to them?"

Mustang visibly flushed as Edward flew into a rage. "Hey, old dude! Have some respect for the blin –"

A firm hand on Edward's shoulder stopped him from going any further.

But the good doctor had apparently caught on. "You're – ? Oh, oh I see." His face instantly switched to a more ashamed expression. "My deepest apologies as well, I didn't know –"

"No, it's fine." Edward could tell that the polite smile on Mustang's face was all but false. "I get that a lot."

The man seemed to brighten as a sudden thought struck him. "Maybe I can help."

Before Edward could utter a word of protest, the doctor had shoved past him and was pulling a sleek metal object from within his coat.

With a professional-sounding _click_ , the platform was illuminated by the soft glow of the flashlight, and Blake had to stretch a little to match Mustang's towering height, shining the light into the colonel's unblinking eyes as he _mmm_ ed and _ahh_ ed.

"Um, mister?" Mustang said uncertainly, seeming unsure of the proper conduct in handling such a bizarre situation.

"Dr. Blake is just fine, young man." Blake said, clicking the light off and stepping back, frowning thoughtfully. "I see you wear military clothes. If you don't mind me asking, was that how you lost your sight?"

Mustang cocked his head, considering his response. "Covert military mission. I was lucky to escape with my life."

"Ah, I see. I won't pry. A sergeant, then?"

"Colonel. Colonel Roy Mustang."

Dr. Blake quite literally recoiled in shock. "The Flame Alchemist?"

"Yes." replied Mustang hesitantly. "That would be me."

The man shook his head in disbelief. "Well, now this is certainly embarrassing. Meeting the famous Hero of Ishval in such a fashion. Hmm, does that mean…" he trailed off, casting Edward a curious glance. "This small child is the Fullmetal Alchemist?"

Edward promptly snapped. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING –"

Mustang slapped a hand over his former subordinate's mouth before he could progress any further. "Sorry about that, Dr. Blake."

"No, not at all." the man studied Edward with wide scarlet eyes, as if the boy were the most interesting new specimen. "The Fullmetal Alchemist's height complex is quite legendary in East City."

Edward's nostrils flared as he kicked and struggled against Mustang's grip. The words ' _I do not have a height complex!_ ' could be vaguely heard as a series of gurgles and grunts.

Dr. Blake raised an eyebrow in amusement before pocketing his flashlight. "I had hoped to pinpoint the source of your unfortunate…disability, but without more advanced machinery, it is impossible for me to make an accurate diagnosis." He licked his lips, considering. "I'll be in Sersa for the following month doing volunteer work for my fellow kinsmen. If you happen to find a few spare hours during your own visit there, please give me a call at whatever time which is most convenient to you."

He dug around in his pockets for a moment before producing a crumpled card and a pen. He scribbled something furiously on its white surface before handing it to Edward. "Here are my contact details. I'll be lodging at a hotel for the duration of my stay. I just happen to be a practicing ophthalmologist – an eye doctor if you will – so perhaps I may be able to offer you some answers concerning your current condition."

Edward's eyes flickered over the card in his hands, still unconvinced.

Dr. Blake smiled at them. "Now, if you may excuse me gentlemen, I should retire before it gets any later."

And just like that, the doctor had swept back out the door and disappeared from sight, leaving Edward staring open-mouthed at thin air.

"Strange man." commented Mustang.

"Strange." agreed Edward, turning the card over in his hands before stuffing it in his pocket. "You think he's worth a visit?"

Mustang's lips twisted imperceptibly. "I don't know." he admitted.

Edward chewed the inside of his cheek. "I think you should. You haven't…given up, have you?"

Mustang didn't reply for a moment. Ed glanced behind him, catching the bizarre expression on Mustang's face that was between a frown and a grimace.

"I haven't."

When the colonel did finally make his reply, it was firm and determined, and Edward found himself letting out a breath that he wasn't even aware he had been holding in.


	4. Chapter 4 - Dog

**Author's Note:  
**

 **Oh god, this chapter is just _massive._ I have no idea what happened (more to read...I guess?). Interesting fact: A new character will make their appearance in this chapter (he's not really an OC, as he does appear in the Brotherhood anime, but I don't think anyone bothered to name him so I took some liberty with that). And anyone who can guess who he is/which episode he's from deserves a Highly Commendable Prize (I mean, seriously, I didn't even _know_ he wore glasses until I went back and rewatched the episode). Try to guess before Mustang explains who he is in the next scene!**

 **A big thank you to LishaChan, CripticWolf, Haro kzoids and Red for their lovely reviews.**

 **Reply to Red (Guest) [Because I couldn't PM you] : Thanks so much for the ridiculously high praise! I'm glad you picked up on the subtler parts of my writing (and the bits of sadness I left all over the place), and I am honestly enjoying exploring this AU tangent as well. Don't worry! Mustang will probably figure out a way to make himself useful (can't promise that he wouldn't have some false starts, but he'll be fine...probably?). Hope you will continue to enjoy reading this story!**

 **As always, please follow/favourite and most importantly - REVIEW if you liked it! Your support never fails to make my day.**

 **Disclaimer: Uh...No own?**

* * *

 _Chapter 4 – Dog_

 _First impressions can be deceiving._

Yes, that was the very first – and the most significant – lesson that Kain Fuery had learnt from one Colonel Roy Mustang.

It was difficult to remember a time when he was wholly unfamiliar with the colonel. Strange really, how much of his life revolved around that one man and his ideals for a better world. But there certainly existed such a time – when Fuery had been a relatively new military officer specializing in communications and surveillance in East City.

The recently promoted Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. An enigma. A paradox. A shadow trailing fire and light. The Flame Alchemist.

Fuery thought he had known him then, the perplexing colonel, the same way one may think they know a celebrity purely through the scouring of scandalous tabloids and exaggerated newspaper articles. And scandalous he was! The drama that played around him, or played _by_ him, was infamous even then. He was, after all, young and dashing and charismatic, with a taste for women and the high life, and the media lapped such things up with pink tongues as a cat would lap at cream in a dish.

Fuery, however, had his own opinion cemented for him when he had run into the alchemist himself in the darker regions of East City.

Rain, like mist on his cheeks, had been a constant plague since Fuery had left his job at Eastern Headquarters an hour ago. He walked this grimy route back to his own dingy living quarters each day like clockwork, but it was today that a flash of blue against moss-blackened brick caught his gaze.

Hair and eyes as dark as night – darker, perhaps, if such a thing was possible. A back clad in Amestrian blue receding further into the shadows of the narrow alleyway. A scuffle of feet. The flash of a white glove etched with a mysterious array – instantly recognizable.

Fuery stopped and edged closer, wondering what the renowned Flame Alchemist was doing in the shitty side of town at this time of the day.

 _"…keep your mouth shut…funds…will get your share…understood?"_ A deep baritone voice – Fuery had never heard it before, but its source was unmistakable – hissed sharply through the gloom, rainfall interjecting each word like the whisper of the xylophone in a grand symphony.

There was another hunched figure standing further into the alley, facing the colonel. A cap was pulled low over his face, and Fuery could make out nothing of him save for a stout build and the same blue uniform.

The whisper of rough notes exchanging hands. Further warnings delivered in low voices. A nod and word of assurance from the mystery officer, pocketing the wad of cash as he disappeared into rain and shadows.

Fuery gasped. The Flame Alchemist turned.

For a long moment, knife-sharp eyes studied his slight form and mist-covered glasses. An eyebrow was raised, and a slow, condescending smirk made itself known on his equally sharp features.

The alchemist had brushed past Fuery like he was nothing – and that was probably true, for what could a meagre corporal do against a lieutenant colonel? Fuery had always known the military was corrupted, but the bare truth of it laid out before him shocked him and took his breath away, for he was convinced, that Roy Mustang had issued a bribe, and from what he had heard, was probably involved in some kind of embezzlement or other.

It pissed him off.

The next day, he had reported Mustang's actions to General Grumman.

"Ah, that certainly sounds rather distressing." Grumman had answered earnestly, but without much concern. In fact, he was obsessively cleaning his prized chess set as he spoke, replacing each brightly polished chess piece back onto its rightful place on the board. "But without solid evidence, there's nothing much I can do."

And so, Fuery had ended up back outside Grumman's office, fuming and angry, and all he could think about was that arrogant smirk, and the fact that Mustang obviously thought he could get away with anything.

 _Solid evidence. Of course._

The day after, on the pretense of performing a scheduled maintenance on all communication devices in the building, Fuery had carefully selected a time when the colonel would be away on one of his many assignments, entered his office, and bugged the phone sitting on his gleaming mahogany desk.

How smug and satisfied he had felt then. Of course, if he was found out, he could be court-martialled or worse, but the thought had barely crossed his mind.

A fruitless two weeks later with no worthwhile evidence to show for his efforts, Fuery was snagged on the way back home.

His abductors, an Eastern region terrorist group which had the previous misfortune to cross paths with Mustang and his team, and was almost completely wiped out as a result, had kidnapped Fuery for one reason and one reason only: to manufacture a state of the art electronic bug that was obviously meant to be used for listening into sensitive military conversations. More specifically, those of a certain Colonel Asshole.

The situation was so ironic Fuery could have laughed. But he knew that, while the bug _he_ had placed was the result of his own selfish desire to overthrow the corrupted high-ranking officials, this new one his kidnappers had asked of him would be used for far more devious goals.

And no matter how much he disliked a person, Fuery could not stand the idea of being responsible for a death.

He agreed at first, and stalled as much as he could, connecting and welding wires and fusing circuits – but he was not making a listening bug, but rather, a transmitter.

For the bug he had placed in Mustang's phone was equipped with a receiver, and in theory, Fuery could transmit an S.O.S. signal to it if he had all the right components. His despair however, was that there was probably only one man in the universe who would hear his desperate pleads for help, and that particular person currently ranked skyrocket high on his 'Most Hated People in Amestris' list.

Life was strange in that way.

Precisely five days after his capture, while Fuery was lying in his gloomy prison-like room groaning pitifully after a morning of being kicked around – his little plot to call for help had been discovered – the first gunshots had been fired.

A swollen grey eye cracked open. Fuery adjusted the bent frame of his glasses a little better over his nose, and painfully, crawled over to the small flap at the bottom of the locked metal door which his abductors used to push in trays of stale food.

Sticking his nose out through the flap so that he could see through the narrow gap, and feeling rather like a mouse checking the coast for a prowling cat, Fuery blinked as a column of flames burst into view around the next corner, crackling tongues licking the ceiling before instantly extinguishing.

There were shouts and screams of both agony and panic, orders being thrown out by both sides, gunfire and flames.

Fuery retreated back into the relative safety of his cell, dazed and shaking his head in wonderment.

Barely five minutes and a crackle of a transmutation circle later, the door swung open, admitting the dark silhouette of the man whose phone he had bugged. The lights above him seemed to waver and flicker, making his eyes seem more panther-like than ever.

 _The enigma. The paradox. A shadow trailing fire._ Fuery now understood perfectly.

The moment stretched on, the colonel gazing at Fuery with a rather bemused expression on his face. A thin streak of red dribbled from the edges of his obsidian hair, curving around his ear and down the pale curve of his neck.

Fuery struggled not to pass out.

The colonel raised both eyebrows, planted his feet, and in an almost comical gesture, pointed a finger at the middle of Fuery's forehead. He yelled behind his shoulder: "I found him!"

Fuery did pass out.

It would be many days later before Fuery ran into the alchemist again. Was he still his enemy? Or his saviour? The lines had blurred imperceptibly.

But there was still one thing Fuery was certain about.

"I bugged your phone." said Fuery flatly to the lieutenant colonel's back. He had tried to adopt a voice as non-caring and casual as possible, but being an absolute failure at the fine art of deception, was struggling to maintain it.

Mustang was crouched on the grass, a bacon rind dangling from his fingers. A thin swathe of white bandage gleamed starkly against his fringe of black hair – the dressing for a bullet-graze wound.

He clicked his tongue soothingly, trying to lure out the stray greyhound which had made the back wall of Eastern HQ its home and was currently wedged in between two trashcans.

Fuery fidgeted, favouring his bruised right leg. "Sir?"

No response save for the low clicking of Mustang's tongue and a weird little sound which Fuery suspected to be the colonel's poor attempt at mimicking a bark.

" _Sir!_ I bugged your phone!"

" _Shush_ , Corporal. Do you want the whole of Eastern Command to find out?" One black iris regarded him lazily. "I know."

"You –" Fuery was at a loss. Surely he would have been reprimanded by now? "Aren't you…going to do something about it?"

"Why should I?" The end of a white-speckled nose had appeared from its hiding place, and Mustang dangled his leftover lunch a little closer. "You passed the test. I was rather impressed, really. Just reporting me to Grumman alone would have sufficed, but I wanted to see if you would take further action. You're quite a man of principle, Corporal Fuery."

"Uh, thank you?" Fuery replied uncertainly.

A pause. The hound, barely bigger than a pup, edged out of the shadows, sniffing warily at the string of fat-slick pork. Mustang shook the bacon, and its pink edges wriggled most tantalizingly.

"My team needs a technician." said Mustang simply, his back still turned to Fuery as he watched the advancements of the stray dog. "A communications man. Espionage and surveillance. We've been searching East City for months now, using the same trick over and over – you were the first one to turn me in."

"Then the –" Fuery had to stop and wind back Mustang's words, struggling to comprehend their meaning. "The bribe I saw you giving to that other officer… It was just an act?"

A low chuckle. "That 'officer' is Lieutenant Jean Havoc, and he was kind enough to humour me in my little performance of sorts. You'll meet him soon, if you're willing."

"Willing?" Fuery felt his own eyes drawn to the dog. Its coat was a glossy black sprinkled with white, and he found its colouring strangely similar to that of Mustang's, except that it was rather less well-groomed and had bits of chewing gum sticking out of its fur. "You mean you want me to…"

Mustang gave a small whoop of gleeful laughter as the greyhound snatched up the bacon in one snap of its jaws, completely ignoring the fact that his own fingers had nearly been taken off in the process.

Fuery blinked in astonishment as the colonel petted the dog's head, then quickly withdrew as it twisted and snapped menacingly, one paw placed protectively over its newly acquired supper.

Mustang shrugged and stood up, brushing blades of grass off his dress pants.

He whirled and nodded sharply at Fuery, as if laying eyes on the corporal for the first time. "Corporal Kain Fuery, I would like to formally offer you the proposition of transferring to my unit as technician and mechanic."

And just as clearly as he knew that he needed to own up to his little crime, Fuery's answer was already tumbling out of his throat and in between his teeth before Mustang could finish. "Y – y – yes, lieutenant colonel!"

Mustang's black eyes glinted with mirth. "Well, wasn't that a hasty decision? If I were you, I wouldn't be so quick about deciding to devote myself to a dog of the military."

"Sir – I mean, lieutenant colonel," Fuery flushed crimson. "With all due respect, you are…a puzzle, sir. A mystery – and an unsolvable one. But I can't help but _want_ to solve it –"

Fuery snapped his mouth shut, his face still alternating between various hues of red.

"Why, I must say, Corporal Fuery. You've never struck me as a particularly noteworthy person – but you have proven me wrong." Mustang's lips quirked in amusement.

"I guess first impressions _can_ be deceiving."

* * *

Nearly six years later and the mystery still remained as unsolvable as ever.

 _But that was alright._ mused Sergeant Major Fuery as the train pulled into the station. As long as Colonel Roy Mustang maintained his ideals for a better world and continued to fight for them, Fuery was perfectly content to follow him to the end of the world and back.

All of them were.

The heavy package in Fuery's arms jerked out of his grip as the train jolted to a jittery stop, smoke billowing and whistles blowing. Breda automatically reached out and grabbed it before it could smash to the ground – mechanical pieces and all – nearly toppling over with its weight. "Christ. What the hell did you put in this thing?"

"It's the control panel for all our communication devices and radios," answered Fuery promptly, making no move to take the package back as Breda sweated and grunted. "I need it to establish a connection with –"

"Forget it," groaned Breda. "Forget I ever asked."

Havoc audibly sniggered behind his lighter.

Breda shot an irritated glance at the light-haired lieutenant, and with a small snigger of his own, shoved the wrapped package into Havoc's chest. "There! You seem to have your hands free at the moment."

Havoc – whose hands were definitely _not_ free at the moment – dropped the cigarette he had been in the process of lighting and yowled in protest as his hands automatically caught Fuery's package. "Wha – _Breda!_ "

A series of actions that involved pushing the parcel back and forth ensued, punctuated by snatches of raised voices. Above the clamour, Fuery moaned in distress: "Careful! Careful with that! It's fragile! Falman, stop them!"

Falman looked up once, shrugged, and went back to the book on Ishvalan culture he had been perusing.

"Gentlemen, if you may."

Mustang rarely shouted, if ever, the strong bass notes of his vocal chords simply _commanding_ the utmost attention of all those present. Such an effect could be observed as the fighting instantly ceased, Havoc and Breda freezing with the package wedged in between them, Fuery trying to tug it out of their grasp.

All four men – including Falman, who looked miffed at having to put his book down – turned around to salute their commander (as you can tell, this was a rather difficult motion between Havoc and Breda and Fuery's precious control panel).

Mustang stood in the aisle, Hawkeye at his shoulder, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand massaging little circles in the middle of his forehead. Dark shadows smudged the alabaster skin beneath his eyes.

"Men, can we _please_ try to maintain some semblance of professionalism here?" His forced annoyance just managed to disguise the traces of tiredness in his voice. But his unit knew him well enough to be able to pick up on these subtle changes in pitch and tone.

"Yes sir." They all chorused, more out of tradition than for any real reason. Mustang wasn't quite the type of superior officer who was all ' _yessirs_ ' and ' _nosirs_ '.

Havoc (having taken advantage of Mustang's entrance to shove the package back to Breda with a sense of finality), lighted a cigarette and grinned. "But seriously, Chief. It's just Miles and Scar. I'm sure they're familiar enough with us to overlook a few gestures of 'unprofessionalism'."

" _Scar?_ " Edward's head popped into the gap between Mustang's side and the wall. "The dude's _here?_ "

"Scar is hardly a 'dude'," said Breda, with a look that suggested the very idea of it appalled him. "The Fuhrer granted him full amnesty under the condition that he offer his support to the military on the Ishvalan Restoration Program. He's been working with Major Miles these past several months, and they were the ones who set up this meeting with the Ishvalan Grand Cleric."

"But there's a chance that they won't be the only ones affiliated with the military waiting to receive us." said Hawkeye, her voice impossibly dry.

The men paused to reflect on her words. Her tone – the one that she used to alert them that ' _someone dangerous will be closing in on the colonel_ ' – was unmistakable.

"Did the Fuhrer send someone else?" asked Fuery. "But I thought he trusted Colonel Mustang completely?"

"He does," said Hawkeye, and the expression on her face was as close as it would ever come to aggravation without crossing the line of neutrality. "But his other generals don't. They sent someone else, due to arrive just a day before us, to supervise the process. We ourselves just learnt of this a few days ago."

There was a murmur of general consensus that no wonder the colonel was in a bad mood – Roy Mustang, of all people, did not require _supervision._

"So who is it?" Falman posed the dreaded question in the calm and composed manner that was typical of Falman.

But his question remained unanswered as the doors of the train slid open at that very moment, revealing the humble, rickety platform of the Sersa station.

The efficiency and speed at which every one of them rearranged their features never ceased to impress Fuery. While none of them were as adept at the art of masks and façades as their superior, such things were still necessary when working for him, and even Fuery had picked up the skill. It amazed him, really, how differently they acted behind closed doors and when exposed to the rest of the world. That was why, while people generally knew that Mustang's unit was loyal to him, they failed to understand the sheer extent of that loyalty.

All of them piled quickly out of the train, flanking the colonel and Hawkeye as they stepped onto the platform. Edward and Alphonse took up their positions directly behind the group, peering curiously at the near-desolated station.

It was a small affair – perhaps even smaller than the one at Resembool, which was quite a statement. But considering that Sersa was the last stop on the Eastern train line (not counting Ishval), that was only to be expected.

Due to its pitiful size and the fact that they were almost the only people who had gotten off the train, the tall bulky form of the white-haired ex-killer and his slightly leaner companion were instantly noticeable a little ways towards the exit.

"Colonel Mustang!" called out Major Miles, making his way briskly towards the group. Scar trailed behind calmly, his face set in impassive stone.

Mustang perked his head in the direction of the new voice, and Fuery noted with muted awe how he seemed to analyze its source, its tone and pitch, before settling on the name which it belonged to. "Major Miles, it's good to see you again."

Miles saluted smartly, before reaching out to grasp Mustang's outstretched hand. "Likewise, colonel."

"You've been busy, major." There was the trace of a smile on Mustang's face. The Northern Wall of Briggs and Eastern Command had always shared a rather curious relationship which teetered on the border between grudging respect and outward dislike, mostly due to the dynamics between General Armstrong and Colonel Mustang. But since the Promised Day, that respect had grown somewhat from both sides, and Mustang had remarked once that Miles was a good soldier and that Olivier Armstrong was fortunate to have him. "Your efforts in setting this up is much appreciated."

"Anything to further the program, colonel." replied Miles heartily. "Though really, the majority of the praise should go to my ever-so-charming companion." He jerked a joking thumb at Scar. "Who refuses to be given an _actual_ name."

"Our names are a gift from our great god Ishvala. I have forsaken mine, so it is not appropriate for a mere human to bestow another to me." said Scar impassively. "I have explained this to my fellow brethren here many times, but he does not seem to understand."

Miles spread his arms out helplessly, like: _See what I have to deal with?_ "Anyway, the cars are waiting outside. The Grand Cleric and his entourage are expecting us for breakfast."

"Aww, right away?" protested a rather miffed Edward, who had been looking forward to a blissful morning of perusing the local library. He had heard that, despite it being a small town close to Ishval, the Sersan library allegedly owned a compact but valuable collection of ancient alchemy books. While his search for the Philosopher's Stone may be over, his quest for knowledge far from.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to, Fullmetal," commented Mustang callously. "You're not officially part of the Amestrian party."

"If that's another one of your petty attempts at getting rid of me, it's pathetic." Edward grinned and folded his arms behind his head. "Like it or not, you're stuck with me, Colonel Bastard."

"Little parasite." coughed out Mustang, just loud enough for Edward to hear.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL ALL HIS CLOTHES COME FROM THE CHILDREN'S SECTION!"

And the argument may have continued if it weren't for the emergence of a new voice.

It snaked out from the shadows, slithering and hissing, purring and humming. Poison and honey – oh, what a potent concoction that was.

"Why, this is certainly a pleasant surprise, Colonel Mustang."

All of them, Miles and Scar included, turned around to regard the newcomer – and the motion was so simultaneous that an observer would have thought they'd choreographed it in advance.

The stranger was dressed in full Amestrian blue, the firm heels of his polished black boots clicking against the concrete floor with authority. Fair hair shining an even brighter shade of gold than Hawkeye's flaxen blonde was combed back neatly in a manner that Mustang rarely bothered with. Sharp blue-grey eyes flashed, ruthless and amused, behind the sheen of the pair of glasses perched on his nose.

Fuery swallowed imperceptibly and edged a little closer to Falman. He had always thought that his fellow spectacle-wearing brethren were a harmless species of nerds and bookworms. But this man – this man was anything _but_.

He caught Alphonse running his eyes along the man's shoulders – taking clear note of the stars pinned there. "Brigadier general." he whispered to his brother.

"Ah, Major Miles," said the general with false enthusiasm. There was a slight narrowing of eyes behind those glasses, as if it strained him to be speaking to an officer who was so many times his lesser that he may as well be talking to an insect. "I see you're here to welcome our…guests."

"General Rourke, sir." Miles snapped into a rigid salute. The smile he had worn when facing Mustang had all but vanished. "I thought we would be meeting you en-route."

"I just felt that it would be rather rude of me if I didn't come down to give Colonel Mustang and his men a proper greeting." General Rourke swivelled around as he spoke, coming face-to-face with the colonel himself.

Up close, Fuery realized that he was _young_ – and amazingly so for an officer of his rank. The outlines of his facial features were sharp and distinct, and Fuery grudgingly admitted that he was very good-looking, and with charisma and charms that could rival even those of the colonel.

For what felt like a long moment, but in reality was less than half a second, Team Mustang watched the general with wariness in their eyes as he stood before their commander, chest puffed out and eyes alight with something akin to scorn.

Darkness and light, shadow and gold. Polar opposites – now facing one another.

Mustang raised his hand in a courteous, but almost casual, salute. His face was a polite mask, and all traces of fatigue had been promptly tidied up and stored away. "Brigadier General Matthew Rourke. It's an honour to have run into you here, sir."

Edward visibly flinched and looked away. Fuery recalled a time when Ed had confided to him about how alien it felt whenever Mustang addressed someone else as 'sir'. The Fullmetal Alchemist had noted in distaste that he absolutely hated it when the colonel started to act all prim and polite in front of another superior officer – Fuery wholeheartedly agreed.

"The feeling is mutual, Colonel Roy Mustang. It pains me however, that our interactions were limited to a few mere greetings in the hallways of Central – I have been holed up in the West for most of the duration of my service after all. I am pleased that the opportunity to work with you in such close quarters should arise. I look forward to witnessing that infamous resourcefulness and ingenuity that the Flame Alchemist is often associated with." Rourke's every word sent a shiver up Fuery's spine. Scathing double meanings, all of them.

The general was just moving to stretch out his hand when Mustang coolly beat him to it. "Likewise, sir. Here's to a smooth cooperation on the Ishvalan Restoration."

General Rourke eyed the gloved hand distastefully – Fuery cheered inwardly for the colonel. It would have been embarrassing if Rourke were to propose a handshake first, and Mustang, having had his sight incapacitated, would have had to fumble around to find it.

Rourke took the hand and shook it nonetheless, and the rough white fabric crumpled under the sheer force of his grip. The light smile on Mustang's lips never wavered. "Though, if you don't mind me saying this, sir, I was rather surprised when I heard that you'd volunteered to be the overseer for the program."

"And why is that, colonel?"

"Well, seeing that I've had a few _chance_ opportunities to have met your acquaintance in the academy, I rather thought that you had an…aversion of sorts towards the Ishvalan people." the ends of Mustang's mouth curved ever so slightly in an almost unnoticeable scowl. "I guess that first impressions are deceiving."

"People change, Colonel Mustang. Besides, what was it you used to say…that Ishvalans have the same rights as us Amestrians by law?" the general grinned almost savagely. "As a brigadier general, it is my responsibility to uphold that law to the best of my capability, wouldn't you say so?"

Precisely none of them missed the way he had flaunted his superior rank to the colonel.

Edward stiffened and scowled. Alphonse's hand imperceptibly gripped his elder brother's, as if in preparation to subdue a rage-fuelled lunge.

Mustang simply smiled. A master of alternate personalities. "Yes, precisely what I was thinking, _sir._ "

"General Rourke," interjected Miles politely, though he struggled to school his features into a more pleasant arrangement. "Perhaps we should get going now? We are scheduled to meet with the Grand Cleric in half an hour."

"Well look at how time flies! Thank you for notifying us, Major Miles," said Rourke in a tone that suggested he was not feeling very grateful at all. "My chauffeur is waiting outside in my car, so you'll forgive me if I don't dally." he turned back to Mustang. "I'll see you there, Colonel Mustang."

"Of course, General Rourke."

Rourke whirled on his heel and strode towards the exit.

He stopped, golden hair shifting as he turned his head slightly to glance behind his shoulder. "Oh, and Mustang? I heard about what happened with your eyes. A very unfortunate accident indeed." But despite his empathetic tone, he was smiling – oh the bastard was actually _smiling_ in _glee._ "You have my condolences."

And with a flourish and a click of his polished shoes, the general made his way down the steps and away from the station.

No one relaxed, all too tense to show any sign of weakness until the general was well out of sight and the clipped sounds of his footsteps had completely faded.

Fuery heaved a sigh of relief, his glasses getting knocked askew as he slumped against Falman.

"Mustang?" When he spoke, Edward's voice was low and quiet.

Mustang raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Fullmetal?"

"Can I punch him?" A slow smile spread across Ed's lips. " _Please?_ "

Mustang sighed in mock vexation, but Fuery didn't miss the small smile – a _real_ smile – dancing across his features. "No, Fullmetal. Unfortunately, that is completely unacceptable."

And suddenly, the smile widened into an amused grin. "But once I'm Fuhrer, that notion may become slightly _more_ acceptable."

* * *

"So, what's the story?"

"Hmm?" Mustang murmured drowsily from the front passenger seat. His forehead was pressed against the window, and he appeared to be nodding off. Understandable, considering that he probably only got about three hours of sleep the previous night.

Feeling a pang of guilt at interrupting Mustang's nap (but really, Edward knew from experience that falling asleep in the car would just make you even _grumpier_ ), and yet too curious to let the subject go, Edward wedged himself in between the two front seats and positioned his elbows on the centre console. "You and that stuck-up Rourke guy."

Mustang unsuccessfully tried to repress a yawn. "What makes you think there's a story?"

"Oh come on!" Edward whined. "You seriously think none of us noticed _that?_ The guy obviously had a bone to pick with you. Well, more than the other stuck-up generals at least. There has to be some sort of long standing vendetta here."

Major Miles, who was seated beside Edward as their navigator, smiled. "I don't see the harm in that, colonel. I can't say that I'm more than a little intrigued myself."

The colonel groaned. "It'll probably bore you all to death anyway."

"So there _is_ a story!" Edward pumped one fist in the air victoriously.

"Edward," said Hawkeye, glancing at him with her hands on the steering wheel of their military-issued car. "Back in your seat."

"Not until the colonel tells me the story."

Alphonse looked rather amused. "You aren't going to stop pestering the colonel until you get what you want, are you brother?"

"Well…" Even Hawkeye had the telltale traces of a smile shining in her soft amber eyes. "I think even Edward would be rather impressed by _that_ story, if I should say so myself, sir."

Mustang banged his head against the window in something akin to horror. "How do _you_ know about it?"

"Hughes used to recite it to me." Hawkeye mused. "Multiple times. The turning point in your friendship – he used to say. He was so proud of it I'm surprised that all of Amestris doesn't know what happened that day at the academy."

"Story! Story!" crowed Edward, like a six year old harassing his father to read him a fairytale.

"Alright, fine." grumbled Mustang, before settling back against his seat, arms crossed and eyes closed. "I first met Matthew Rourke during my days at the military academy – he was one year my senior, and even Hughes used to be friendly to him. That is, until… _that_ day."

Edward leaned forward even further, staring up at Mustang, intrigued.

"There was…an Ishvalan at the academy. In my year." Mustang paused. "I hope this doesn't make you uncomfortable, Major Miles."

"Not at all, colonel." Miles said good-naturedly.

"Well, Rourke was a really popular kid – his dad was some big-shot general even back in the day – so he used to have this entire entourage of cadets tailing him around. And he was… _awful_ to that Ishvalan recruit. He would sneer and pick on him, and didn't even apologize when he knocked him over once." Mustang played with his gloves in his lap, head cocked to one side. "I didn't like it. At that time, I really…did believe that we'd all entered the academy to protect Amestris – and Ishval is part of our country. He was also why I absolutely loathed Hughes for a while, since Maes used to run with their group."

" _Hughes?_ " Edward shook his head in disbelief. "With _that_ guy?"

Mustang let out a small bark of laughter. "Oh I haven't even gotten to the best part yet." he nodded to himself, lost in memory. "One day, I saw Rourke and his buddies herding the Ishvalan kid into this deserted alley. I figured something wasn't right, so I followed them…and found him on his hands and knees on the _floor_ , and the others were laughing and taunting him. And he had probably already been kicked around a bit before I arrived, so I snapped and told them to stop."

Miles visibly prickled, but he remained silent, as mesmerized by Mustang's story as Ed and Al were.

"And Rourke – I still remember what he said to me that day – that Ishvalans are just 'backward people who have to do what they said' and that 'the Ishvalan smell would get all over me'. And I…" Mustang winced. "I punched him in the face."

There was a long beat of stunned silence before Edward quite literally doubled over in laughter.

" _Ohmygod, Colonel!_ " cried out Ed in between peals of helpless guffaws. "You _punched_ a senior cadet? Oh god, what I would give to have seen _that!_ "

Mustang merely snorted with a muttered 'yeah, yeah…'.

Edward wiped tears from his eyes, and found himself in a better mood than he had been for the majority of the past few days. Hughes had commented to him once, when he was steaming after a particularly bad row with the colonel, that he and Mustang were more alike than he thought, and had given him a conspiratorial wink.

 _So this is what you meant, Hughes._ And Edward was grinning from ear to ear at the thought of a young, justice-seeking Mustang who didn't have to put up with all that politeness and crap and just punched people who deserved it. That was exactly what Ed would have done.

"So anyway, Hughes showed up. And there was a gun and some theatrics, and then we _both_ started beating those seniors up. It was quite a row, really." Despite himself, Mustang couldn't stop a smile from tugging at the edges of his lips. "We all got bruised pretty badly, but _man_ , was that satisfying. Even the punishment of digging ditches after couldn't quite drench that."

"I can now understand." Edward looked like he was trying not to giggle. "Why Rourke hates you so much."

Mustang's shoulders rose in a nonchalant shrug. "Can't do anything about that. Besides, he probably isn't too happy with the idea that I'll be promoted to his rank once I get back from Sersa."

Edward raised his eyebrows as if the thought of Mustang being able to flaunt _his_ rank in Rourke's face amused him very much indeed. "Ho ho, would I like to see the look on his face at your promotion ceremony."

"You and me both, Fullmetal." And the two alchemists shared a conspiratorial snigger.

"Colonel," piped up Al suddenly, leaning forward to be included in the conversation. "So what happened to that Ishvalan cadet?"

It was an innocent question, one that Alphonse hadn't put much thought into, but the mood instantly plummeted faster than a plane shot out of the sky.

Mustang's smile dropped, and he turned back around, staring unseeingly at the windscreen.

"Uh, colonel?" Edward probed, his gleeful expression now one of concern.

No, he wasn't staring _unseeingly_ , but rather at something that the rest of them couldn't see. Into a bloody past…of flames and fallen comrades. His hands fidgeted restlessly, fluttering across his lap and to his pocket, running slender fingers along the silver chain that was attached to his State Alchemist watch.

"Colonel?"

"His name was Heathcliff," said Mustang suddenly, and his voice was barely a whisper. Edward blinked as he happened to glance down at the colonel's hands – they were shaking, and badly. "And the next time Hughes and I ran into him after our graduation was at Ishval."

 _Ishval._

Ed grew pale. For that could only mean one thing.

 _No. No, please stop. You don't have to go any further._

But Mustang was determined to plough on through the story, and his jaw was clenched so hard his teeth could shatter. "I was…My unit was having trouble with a roof full of sniping Ishvalans…so I…I went out to…"

He stopped, panting heavily. Hawkeye cast her superior officer a concerned look. "Sir, do you want me to pull over?"

"No, no, keep driving." Mustang straightened, and Edward shied away like a frightened cat.

 _Just stop._

"Heathcliff was there – I didn't know that he had returned to fight for his countrymen. He…he _saw_ me. Amongst the corpses of his comrades. And he…" Mustang clenched his fists. "He shot me."

The car was completely silent now, save for the rustling of Hawkeye's hands against the steering wheel and the rumbling of the engine.

"And so Hughes shot him." Mustang slumped over, energy completely depleted, and rested his forehead in his hands. "I survived."

 _Please stop. Make it stop._

The final words which came out of Mustang's mouth made Edward flinch.

"He didn't."

* * *

Scar was never much of a philosophical person.

The exact opposite of his brother – the thinker, Scar was a _doer_. He would decide on something, and then he would act on it through to the end. He was determined and he was strong, and that made him all the more powerful.

It was not often that he would contemplate his past life choices and muse about them, but today, after meeting the two State Alchemists (Edward Elric would always be a State Alchemist in Scar's eyes) for the first time since the Promised Day, his train of thought, despite the unwillingness of its owner, had wandered back to his days in Amestris as a vengeance-driven killer.

Yes, he often wondered, how was it that he could accept amnesty from the Amestrian _military_ of all people? How was it that he did not feel the undeniable urge to tear down their walls, brick by brick, as he did less than half a year ago?

Scar had honestly been dreading this day since the arrangements had been finalized. That said, the Fullmetal Alchemist showing up unannounced had barely fazed him (it just seemed natural for him to be by the colonel's side). But it was not Edward he was worried about – he did not hate the boy, no. In fact, he rather admired him, even from the very beginning – the young Amestrian child who would commit horribly adult things to protect his little brother and the people he loved. The only reason Scar had attempted (emphasis on _attempt_ ) to kill him was quite simply, because he was a State Alchemist.

But his superior officer, the one and only Flame Alchemist – now _that_ was a completely different story.

While Edward had been but a small child situated far away from the front lines during the Ishvalan War of Extermination, Colonel Roy Mustang had been in the thick of it. No, not only in the thick of it – he had absolutely _decimated_ the battle zones with his heavenly columns of fire and heat, and while Scar's own district had not been one of his targets, he had certainly seen the pure destruction and ashes the alchemist had left in his wake.

Not one Ishvalan who had lived through the war would ever forget the demon that was the Flame Alchemist of Amestris. Not one Ishvalan would ever stop hating him for his thoroughly blood-soaked gloves.

At least, that was what Scar had thought, until the colonel himself had stepped off the train that morning, and the former Ishvalan priest found that he did not feel the urge – not even the slightest – to take advantage of his blindness and put an end to him right then and there.

There was no familiar seething anger. No thirst for vengeance. While Scar had not felt the flames of revenge in the weeks leading up to the Promised Day, he had assumed that it was purely because he had a bigger target to pursue, and a larger goal to achieve. But after all that, what was stopping him from going on another full-blown killing spree?

Scar glanced around as their small group – consisting of himself, Miles, Rourke, Hawkeye and Mustang – were admitted into the airy tent which was the Grand Cleric's personal abode. Despite being situated in the depths of the Sersan slums, the interior was brightly lit and cozily decorated, with intricately embroidered carpets, threadbare but beautiful, scattering the hard dirt floor. An oil lamp sat in the corner, as well as an ancient wooden cupboard.

The Ishvalan priest who had greeted them at the entrance waved them towards a low wooden table that stretched the length of most of the tent, its dark brown surface smudged and scratched but still providing a sense of elegance to the room. There were pillows set along the floor, and the Amestrian party took their seats in the traditional Ishvalan way.

Mustang stumbled and groped a bit, apparently not understanding where the chairs were until Hawkeye gently guided him to the seat next to hers. He shot the lieutenant a sheepish smile, and she smiled tenderly back – but the exchange was professional enough to an outside observer who didn't know them well. Scar had witnessed many things on the Promised Day, and their cleverly disguised relationship was one of them.

Yes, as they awaited the arrival of food and the Grand Cleric, Scar looked around and he was reminded why the flames of hatred no longer burned as brightly as they used to. He looked around and he understood why, instead of seeing Mustang as a monster, he saw him as a man. An ordinary man who had been wrongly blinded, with his own wounds and gashes which were almost as deep as Scar's.

For when he looked, he saw that none of this – the entire _idea_ of the restoration of Ishval – would have been possible if not for the black-haired man seated opposite him, and for the many people, Xingese and Amestrian alike, who he grudgingly called his comrades.

He looked and he thought, and he came to a decision.

Failing to kill Roy Mustang may not have been such a bad thing after all.

* * *

Meetings were boring. Period.

Edward Elric stifled a yawn, shuffled his feet, kicked a rock out of the way with his automail foot so that it clattered noisily down the street, and complained to his brother: "I should have brought a book to read."

Al simply shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Be patient, brother."

"I _am._ " Ed complained, stalking up and down the narrow stretch of dirt road in front of the Grand Cleric's tent The Ishvalan guard posted at its entrance eyed the teenager with a sort of wary suspicion, as if unsure whether a short kid with braided blonde hair was worth his trouble of keeping an eye on.

Obviously he hadn't heard the terrifying tales regarding the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Edward stopped in his tracks and cast his golden eyes over the smattering of grimy tents and ramshackle lean-tos which were the primary theme of the Sersan slums – the Ishvalans' abode, though Ed hoped only temporarily.

He had rarely found reason to visit the slums, not in Central, not in East City, and certainly not somewhere along his search for the Philosopher's Stone. But they continued to exist as a gnawing, uncomfortable presence at the edges of his mind – a patch of dirt packed away in some unnoticeable corner of any city Ed journeyed to, out of sight but still _there_.

It was horrifying really, the living conditions here – Edward thought sadly as he watched a group of dark-skinned children play tag amongst the half-propped up tents salvaged from unwanted rags and pieces of decaying wood. Their clothes were dirty and torn, and they ran barefoot down the dusty streets.

Miles had mentioned to Ed that he and Scar had briefly – _very_ briefly – considered the idea of setting all these people up in Sersa proper, but it turned out to be an illogical proposal. For there were so many of them, and only so many empty rooms and houses that Sersa could provide and that their government funding could pay for. The Ishvalan Grand Cleric had been offered a more comfortable room in town, but the man had firmly declined, stating that if his people were suffering, he should be suffering with them.

But that was what they were here for, right? That was what Mustang was here for – to turn all of this around.

Edward blew his bangs out of his face, watching them flutter on the artificial gust of wind and swing back into his eyes again. He settled for brushing them away as he turned around and stalked back towards Al. "I'm _bored._ " he told his brother, with a tone used to describe the most painful torture to ever exist in history.

"The colonel said that we could ask someone to drive us to the library." suggested Al quietly and with far less conviction than Edward thought a trip to that blissful palace of knowledge should warrant.

But he understood Alphonse's lack of enthusiasm, and simply shook his head slowly. "And leave Colonel Matchstick in _that_ state? No, I don't think so."

Al lowered his eyes to the ground and nodded miserably. "Oh, brother. It's all my fault again, isn't it?"

Ed was by his little brother's side in a flash. "No, Al. It isn't." he said soothingly. "We're so close to Ishval, and meeting with Ishvalan people. The colonel would have had to deal with it at some point."

"But I reminded him of it." moaned Al, and Ed felt a little stab of panic at seeing his brother look so distraught. For if there was one golden rule Edward Elric lived his life by, it was this: Alphonse Elric was to be kept happy and content at all times.

Ed awkwardly patted his shoulder. "It's okay, Al. We'll make it up to him later, I promise."

Al nodded silently, his eyes still glued to the floor.

"Besides," Edward offered Al a wry smile. "I'm sure he'll be fine. He's probably dealt with worse before. We're just sticking around…you know, just in case."

And Ed did sort of mean that. For Mustang treated his emotions and _feelings_ as trivial things which could be packed away neatly into a box, tied off with a pretty ribbon and sent for a vacation when they became too bothersome. That was the impression the colonel had given him when their car had pulled to a stop on the outskirts of the slum, and Hawkeye had opened his door to find the Flame Alchemist still hunched over in his chair, head buried in his hands and trembling ever so slightly.

"Sir, are you sure you're feeling well enough to carry on?" Hawkeye had asked in concern.

"I'm fine, lieutenant. Just fine. All I need is a moment." His muffled voice filtered through the gaps in his cupped fingers, and Hawkeye shook her head ruefully as if she'd expected that response.

Ed and Al waited uncertainly as the colonel took in a deep breath, and then two.

Then he had straightened, and his face was a calm mask once again. "Okay, lieutenant. Let's go."

Edward had yet to see Mustang lose that impeccable control, especially in important situations such as this, but he couldn't help but feel fidgety nonetheless.

Yearning for a distraction, he stalked over to Falman, who was 'standing guard' at one side of the tent with his nose in a book, and held out his hand imploringly. "Give me the book." Edward commanded primly.

Warrant Officer Falman looked up at him, clearly unimpressed by his tone. "No." He replied flatly.

Ed scowled. "I'm going to _die_ of boredom here."

"It is scientifically impossible to die of boredom."

"Ugh! You know what I mean!" And with that, Edward lunged for the book, only to have Falman sidestep him at the last moment. "Falman!"

"You're no longer a Major, Edward." Falman smiled almost wickedly at him. "I am certainly not obliged to follow your orders."

"Why you –" With a yowl, Edward launched himself at the older man, who yelped as he was tackled to the ground. They spent a few long moments squabbling over the now very crumpled book before Havoc happened across them, and with Al's help, pulled them apart.

"Brother." scolded Alphonse, though he did seem to have shaken his earlier depressed mood.

Edward pointed an accusing finger at Falman. "Don't look at me, he started it."

Havoc looked like he was trying very hard not to burst his sides with laughter. "Why don't you two kids go take a hike, eh? The four of us can handle things here."

Edward and Alphonse exchanged looks and shrugged in mutual agreement. It wouldn't be too bad if they wandered off for a bit, as long as they remained in the immediate vicinity. Besides, _Hawkeye_ was in there with the colonel, and both teenagers had trouble imagining anything happening to Mustang with her keeping him in line.

"Call if you need us!" threw Edward over his shoulder as he jogged away, yanking his brother by the sleeve as they went.

They spent several minutes exploring the slums, minutes in which Ed just grew more and more saddened by the sight of tired mothers comforting hungry children, and equally tired men who were patching up their near-collapsing homes as best they could. It wasn't long before the Elric brothers found themselves at the Grand Cleric's tent of light canvas once more, except that this time, they'd ended up at its back instead of its front.

The soft murmur of voices could be heard from within, and Edward edged forward curiously, wondering why no one had bothered to post a guard here.

"Brother, are you sure that's a good idea?" said Al with a frown.

"Oh sure it is, eavesdropping is always a good idea." Ed raised his eyebrows and jerked a thumb in the general direction of the tent. "Just ask Mustang. Besides, aren't you even a little bit curious?"

Al shrugged guiltily. "Maybe just a little."

"See?" said Ed smugly, turning around and creeping over to the edge of the tent where one broad side of the stitched up canvas met another. "Maybe I should just convince Colonel Bastard to let us tag along next time. Being in there has to be better than being out here baking in the sun."

Ed pressed his face to the narrow gap and peered inside.

The first thing he registered was a head of long white hair tucked neatly underneath an equally white cloth hat. The person's back – dressed in simple robes of white and red – was facing Edward, but judging from his position at the head of the long table, this was the Ishvalan Grand Cleric he had heard so much about.

" – as an official apology from the Amestrian military." Ed recognized Mustang's voice immediately, pinpointing its source to the seat next to Hawkeye. The table had been laid with several plates of simple Ishvalan cakes and biscuits, but the one belonging to the colonel sat untouched.

The Grand Cleric was nodding, his fancy cloth headgear bobbing with the motion in a way that made Edward want to giggle madly. "Yes. That would be most appreciated, colonel. And the signing of the treaty will also take place on the very same date?"

"That is the plan," replied Mustang, and Ed was amazed by how confidently he held himself. Even when blind, he sounded unstoppable and thoroughly undaunted. "The details of the treaty itself though, will be the main subject of our discussions for the remaining week. I will report any request that you may make on behalf of all Ishvalans to the Fuhrer, and I assure you that he will consider them in the most reasonable manner. The treaty is more of a formal gesture than anything else, as the Fuhrer has already stated his commitment in providing Ishval with as much funding as it requires to aid in its rebuilding."

"That is certainly very kind of Fuhrer Grumman," contemplated the Grand Cleric, taking a sip from a plain ceramic mug. "Forgive me, it is still hard to believe. After everything my brethren have gone through, Ishval will finally be restored to its former glory."

"And Amestris will do everything in its power to support you in achieving that goal." cut in General Rourke smoothly, and Edward felt his hackles rise at the sound of his voice. _Hypocrite._

"One final question before we conclude today's discussion," said the Grand Cleric, running his gaze towards Mustang. Ed felt rather pleased that it was obvious the Cleric saw the colonel as the leader of their group rather than Rourke. "It is clear, that while Amestris seeks to make peace with Ishval, I gather that the Fuhrer will still be placing an Amestrian military officer as the person in charge of this project?"

Mustang nodded, but the motion was rather hesitant. "Yes, that is true."

"And who may this officer be, if you would be so kind as to tell me?"

A long moment of silence stretched down the row of people seated as, for the first time since Ed had met him, Mustang's silver tongue failed him and he looked unsure of his response.

Hawkeye glanced at the silent colonel, sherry eyes glimmering. Edward cursed underneath his breath. _Damn it, just say something._

"I believe the Fuhrer was thinking of appointing Colonel Mustang to that esteemed position." Rourke's clear voice rang out in the stillness, slicing like a double-edged sword, and Mustang _flinched_ at those words. "Of course, nothing has been officially decided yet."

The Grand Cleric looked thoughtful. "Colonel… I regret to have to voice this, as you have obviously done a lot in making the restoration program a reality – but I am afraid that that will not be possible."

Edward blinked and furrowed his eyebrows, unable to comprehend the full extent of the words he had overheard.

"Even the mere act of providing an ordinary Amestrian officer with that sort of authority would be pushing the boundaries – the extent of my people's hatred for your military. Myself and some of the other more reasonable Ishvalans may understand that an era of peace is much better than a continuation of this era of war, but there will always be those who are sceptical of the military's hidden agenda. But _you_ , colonel? Surely you are aware of how tainted your name is in our midst?" The Grand Cleric's voice was sincerely apologetic, which just made Ed feel even sicker to his stomach. "And, ah…some may even bring up the issue of your…competency. I'm sure you understand why?"

"Very clearly, Grand Cleric." answered Mustang stiffly, and his tone nor face betrayed nothing, nothing at all. They were blank, as blank as the eyes which he had been cursed with.

Edward felt his fists clutch at the canvas edges. _No, this isn't fair. How can this be fair?_

"Quite simply put," continued the Cleric in a neutrally sympathetic tone which Mustang had grown uncomfortably used to hearing in recent months. "If an Amestrian officer _has_ to be selected, then I'd much rather it be Major Miles." He nodded approvingly at the half-blood Ishvalan, who jumped guiltily at being named as a candidate. "But I understand that you military people hold position in high regard, so if the Fuhrer requires someone with a higher rank, perhaps Brigadier General Rourke could be a recommendation."

The Ishvalan Cleric gestured to the blonde-haired man, who grinned widely and mock-bowed in his seat. "It surely is an honour."

"I have gotten to know the young general as he was kind enough to drop in yesterday," nodded the Cleric. "And I have to say, his ideals have quite impressed me. He has even assured me that his father, Major General Rourke, will be able to secure a larger amount of funding for the program. An offer that I will be grateful for."

 _So_ that's _what you promised. Weasel._

"I'll be sure to forward your recommendations to Fuhrer Grumman." Mustang's voice still hadn't changed or wavered, but rather, he spoke with resigned evenness – as if he had predicted this outcome all along.

 _But you're just gonna sit back and let that_ asshole _take charge of something he obviously doesn't care about?_

Many cruelties and injustices existed in this world, and Edward could put up with most of them. But not this one.

He pried open the flimsy opening and slipped through, almost stumbling as his foot caught on the rough cloth.

"Brother!" exclaimed Alphonse in surprise from somewhere behind him, but Edward resolutely ignored him.

" _Now hold on a second!_ " Ed bellowed into the room, and everyone quite literally startled at the unexpected interruption of his voice.

The Ishvalan Grand Cleric turned around, red eyes wide in a crinkled brown face, and Edward made straight for him, automail clanking with the force of his footsteps. "Now listen here, you old geezer –"

"Hey! Who the hell are you?" Edward had failed to notice a pair of Ishvalan priests standing guard on the opposite side of the tent. "You're not supposed to be in here!"

Edward resisted the urge to pick the frail old man up by the shirt, and instead settled for jabbing a finger in his face. "If you can be tricked _that_ easily by just a few misplaced words and honey-sweet lies, then you have no _right_ to be religious head or whatever the shenazzle you are. Open your eyes, damn it! Open your eyes and see the people in this room for what they truly are!"

The Cleric apparently recovered enough from his initial shock to glare in the direction of the Amestrians seated before him, his gaze accusatory. "Who is this small child?"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A PIPSQUEAK WHO HAS TO STAND ON HIS TOES TO REACH THE FIRST RUNG OF A LADDER! _"_ screamed an already enraged Edward, and even the bodyguard-priests who had advanced to restrain him actually shrunk back at the force of his height-complex-imbued-tantrum.

Mustang looked torn between denying that he even knew the kid, and smacking himself in the forehead – well, at least there was _some_ emotion flickering across his face now, instead of that scarily empty mask. "Fullmetal," he said, tone low and dangerous. "What are you doing?"

Edward snapped around. "What do you think I am doing? If you won't defend yourself, then someone has to do it for you!"

Everyone in the room was up on their feet now, Rourke watching the events unfold with his eyebrows raised in amusement, Scar giving Edward an appraising look with something like approval in his scarlet eyes, and Miles just looking plain dumbfounded.

"Fullmetal."

But Edward wasn't done yet, far from it. "Are you really just gonna sit there and _let_ this guy be deceived? We all know what's best for Ishval, colonel!"

" _Fullmetal._ "

" – And I actually thought that you _cared_! You can't just let people beat you into submission like this – "

" _EDWARD!_ " Mustang roared.

Ed's mouth snapped shut in shock.

Mustang had never, in his life, ever yelled at him before.

The raven-haired man stood there, fisting and un-fisting gloved hands. Grey eyes stared wide and unseeing at Edward, but he could almost feel the fury of the gaze behind it drilling into his soul. Mustang clenched his jaw. " _Out._ "

"What? But –"

" _OUT,_ Fullmetal!"

Edward nearly took a step back, feeling those words cut into his core like broken glass. He blinked. _But I was only trying to…_

He swallowed, and blinked again, but Mustang's angered expression didn't change.

And so he bit his lip, and forced the last bit of defiance he had left into his shaking voice. "Fine! Suit yourself!"

Edward turned and sprinted out of the tent, pushing past the guards and bursting into the stifling hot air outside.

He didn't stop, not even when he heard Al calling for him, the white noise of hurt and betrayal filling his head.

He didn't understand.

 _I was only trying to help you._

* * *

The scorching, stifling air made it hard to breathe as Roy stepped out of the tent, feeling sand crunch underneath his military shoes and the hot glare of the sun on his face.

He had thought that being inside an enclosed space was what made everything feel so stuffy, but his condition didn't improve in the slightest even out in the open. Roy struggled to inhale, oxygen clogging up his windpipe like warm mush.

"Colonel?" Hawkeye's voice sounded by his side.

"It's nothing. Just…light-headedness." Roy tried to reassure his lieutenant. Really, it felt like all he did as of late was try and convince others that he was okay, everything was fine, _it's nothing_ – though he himself didn't believe his own claims in the slightest.

 _No, it's_ not _okay._

"Where's Edward?" he struggled to get the words out of his mouth. His lips felt dry, his throat parched.

Hawkeye was silent for a second, and Roy figured that she was surveying their surroundings. "I don't see him right now, sir. But I'm sure that we'll find him eventually."

 _Great._

 _I shouldn't have yelled at him._

 _No, you shouldn't have._

"Shall we head to our lodgings now?" suggested Hawkeye, her voice carrying just the right amount of firmness to pass as casual to a stranger, but Roy knew what she really meant was: _I_ order _you to go back and take a break right this instant_.

Roy nodded wordlessly, too drained to keep up this charade any longer.

He stumbled ahead, waving the lieutenant's hands away. He felt bad for wanting to get away from her – really, when had he _ever_ wanted to put some distance between himself and Hawkeye? But he needed space, and the prickly, part-desert air was not doing a great job of clearing his head.

Darkness, darkness everywhere.

He caught the whiff of burning sand and smoke on a dry gust of wind, and nearly gagged.

The scent of Ishval would be forever recognizable in his mind, and being in Sersa came eerily close to it. Without so much as a knock on his mental door, the memories came rushing back.

 _Major?_

 _Major Mustang!_

"Colonel, perhaps we should –" Who had said that? It didn't sound like Hawkeye. Breda, or Falman, perhaps?

 _Roy! Damn it, Roy Mustang! Get out of the frickin' way!_

What – It was bright, and blindingly so. Squat brown buildings stretched out on either side of him, the narrow snaking alleys which wound through them red with blood.

 _Grenade! Get down!_

 _Wait – I'll handle this._

Something exploded, and the _bang!_ it produced was close enough to penetrate his eardrums and make him flinch away in fear.

 _We have to get out of here!_

 _Major –_

 _Do it!_

 _Do it, Mustang! Or we'll all die!_

He glanced down, discovering that he could see his hands once again. His ignition gloves were on, and he flipped his palms over, examining the bright red transmutation circles etched in thread on the back of the pure white fabric. _Such a curse. I should have known better than to yearn for such dark things._

 _But I can't –_

 _Do it! That's an order!_

Hot, so hot. He couldn't breathe.

 _Roy, behind you!_

Roy whirled around reflexively, feeling the brush of a threatening presence against the nape of his neck. His skin tingled, and he knew that someone would be waiting there with a gun trained to his head. This was war, and people die. Yes, people die, just like that.

 _Not if I get you first._

His fingers were already poised and ready – a horrible instinct ingrained into him in the meagre weeks which he had been stuck in this hellhole.

 _Snap._

Fire erupted in his face, the surrounding air expanding rapidly and slamming into his body like a massive heat wave.

He stumbled backwards, falling, hitting the ground on his hands and knees.

The familiar stench of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and as if a switch had been flipped, the darkness came flooding back.

Voices swirled around him in a maelstrom of chaos as he sat back on the hard ground, dazed and horrified.

 _Wha – What just happened?_

"What happened?" Fuery's voice, shrill and panicked.

"The colonel –"

"No, no. Everything's fine. It's just a stray dog."

 _A dog?_ What had he done as he was reliving Ishval?

Despite the heat of the day, a cold shiver found its way down his spine.

Oh god, what if it had been Hawkeye? What if he had burned her by accident, mistaking her for a long-dead Ishvalan soldier from a past long gone? What if it had been Havoc, or Fuery, or an innocent pedestrian? What if it had been _Edward?_

He wheezed, feeling as if he might suffocate.

But then warm hands wrapped around his forearm, and Roy looked up, desperately searching the depths of the darkness for a familiar face.

All he got was her voice. "It's okay. The men will handle things here. The car's waiting."

But that was alright. Her voice was enough to anchor him in that terrible sandstorm of swirling memories and fear, and he felt himself breathe just a little easier.

"Hawkeye." he voiced softly as she hoisted him to his feet and led him away from the smell of burning.

"Sir?"

"What's wrong with me?"

* * *

 **Just in case it wasn't clear, Rourke's character is from the FMAB OVA:Yet Another Man's Battlefield. You guys should definitely look it up if you haven't already (Seriously though...Couldn't Mustang's OVA be less...depressing?)**


	5. Chapter 5 - Circle

**Author's Note:  
**

 **So...Forgive me for the (slightly late) update! Though where I live it isn't midnight yet so it's still Sunday...? [On that note, are there any preferences as to my update times?]**

 **This one feels more like a filler chapter to me, but plot holes have to be filled, new plot lines revealed etc. I promise the next chapter is more 'action-packed', so to speak. P.S. If anyone finds any inconsistencies, plot holes or even a grammatical error, feel free to let me know! (As my usual beta reader is busy recently, and I am notorious for missing mistakes no matter how many times I reread my writing).**

 **Once again, thanks to all the new followers of this story: Redfeather Child, SomeRandomUsernameYo, MeggiMed, , IcyPanther, and EliteGough1998. As well as everyone who hit that _favorite_ button. I hope the story would continue to be enjoyable~**

 **Thanks to everyone who dropped by to leave a review - it really means a lot to me!**

 **Reply to emmahoshi (Guest) : I would really have written something longer if I could PM you, but the gist of it is thanks for the lovely reviews! I really enjoyed reading them (and yes, I am really lucky to have such a friend, though to be fair she probably talks more about things that I have no idea about to me than I to her, no offense). What I really wanted to comment on was when you said that Ed is the same as Mustang in the sense that he hides his true feelings. 0.O I actually didn't realize I'd developed his character in that way, but it's very true!**

 **Reply to Mal (Guest) : Thank you! :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own FMA, so...yeah.**

* * *

 _Chapter 5 – Circle_

With Hawkeye busy signing into their rooms at the counter, Roy gratefully took advantage of the opportunity to excuse himself.

He found his way to the toilets next to the lobby, and after firmly instructing Havoc to wait outside, pushed open the stiff wooden door. Locating an empty stall, he cursed as he fumbled blindly for the lock, and it was several seconds later before he heard it click into place.

Then, away from the prying eyes of the world and in the relative privacy of the stall's four plastic walls, Roy doubled over and threw up.

In a way, he was glad that he had all but lost his appetite for any sort of food since the Promised Day, and having had only a cup of coffee that morning, there wasn't much in the way of breakfast to empty his stomach of.

Still, he valiantly tried to keep his desperate gulps for air and the heaving of his entire digestive tract as quiet as possible, and when the worst of the nausea had subsided, Roy slumped against the side of the stall, pressing the back of his head into the hard plastic panel.

He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and took a few long minutes to mentally berate himself – he hadn't thrown up since his first mission during the Ishval Civil War, and really, after everything he'd seen and done, there shouldn't have been much left which could cause him to end up heaving and panting on some lavatory floor like a pathetic amateur.

 _Pathetic indeed._

Roy closed his eyes, but he could still smell the traces of charred flesh on his clothes. It made him sick in ways that it shouldn't have – how many times had he set people ablaze? Really, he should be used to this by now.

But this was the first time he had burned a living thing by _mistake_ – caught up in this perpetual world of darkness and the swirl of horrifying memories. And it scared him, _terrified_ him, that something like this could happen again, and very possibly to one of the many people who had stubbornly stuck by his side.

He would never forgive himself if they ended up getting hurt because of him.

He scowled darkly and rubbed his eyes, but of course, that did nothing to improve his absence of sight. Roy allowed himself a few precious extra moments of respite to make sure he wasn't suddenly going to start throwing up again, before climbing to his feet and searching for the flush handle.

Havoc would probably barge in here in a panic if Roy were to take his sweet time.

Roy exited the stall to the satisfying sound of water pouring into the toilet bowl, thoroughly obliterating all and any signs of his earlier bout of weakness.

His hands found the sink, and he turned on the tap, splashing cold water on his face and soaking the dark bangs which hung in his eyes.

Vaguely, Roy registered the creak of the main door opening over the refreshing gurgles of running water. "Havoc," he started in annoyance. "I _told_ you to –"

"Do not mistake me for one of your petty subordinates, Mustang. The distance between us – between _me_ and _you_ – is simply insurmountable. It's like comparing a dragon to a worm."

Roy froze, water spilling over the brim of his cupped hands and into the sink. "What do you want, Rourke?" he asked neutrally, too exhausted to really care.

"No ' _sir_ '? No ' _General Rourke_ '? Careful, Mustang – is that a whiff of insubordination I smell on the air?" That familiar conceited voice came cutting out of the darkness. He was close now – Roy could sense his presence almost directly beside him.

Mustang sighed deeply and turned off the tap. The sounds of rushing water ceased, and the two military officers were left in thick silence.

" _Sir._ " Roy added after a moment's hesitation.

" _That's_ more like it. Military dogs should know their place in the world." Roy could hear the traces of a smirk in Rourke's voice, and it made him want to bare his teeth and growl. It had been a long day, and Roy's patience had dwindled down to little more than a thin thread poised to snap at any moment.

Roy bit down on the inside of his cheek and forced his face to remain impeccably blank. He said nothing.

"Hmm? No scathing remark? No sarcastic comeback?" prompted Rourke. "You disappoint me, Colonel Mustang. I thought you would be more fun than this."

"You flatter me, sir. If we're done here, my unit is waiting for me."

Roy turned around stiffly and strode as confidently as he could towards what he figured was the direction of the door. _Damn Rourke and everything about him. He's the last person I want to be caught alone with._

An arm snaked out in front of Roy, barricading his way. "Not so fast, Mustang. I didn't say anything about being _done_ with you yet."

Roy gritted his teeth. "My apologies. Will there be anything _else,_ general?"

Rourke stepped in front of him, and Mustang could hear the sharp click of his shoes against the tiled floor. There was a brief pause, and Roy's shoulders tensed in wary anticipation. "You don't seriously think that you'll be sticking around for long, eh Mustang?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Oh please, this whole game you insist on playing?" stated Rourke. "How long do you think it's going to last? How long before the higher-ups fully realize that you have outlived your usefulness?" He leaned in closer, and Roy struggled not to flinch as he felt a breath of hot air against his cheek. "Because the last thing Amestris needs is a _blind_ Flame Alchemist."

Roy fought to keep his voice calm. "I'm dealing with it."

"Such bravado. But really, I'm surprised they haven't discharged you yet – probably only due to your ties to the Fuhrer. He's a soft man, that Grumman." continued Rourke in a mockingly contemplating manner. "It won't be long, either way – before the military abandons you and you'll be left so, so alone. It amuses me, really. All this time I've spent plotting your eventual downfall, and fate goes ahead and does my job for me."

"I won't be alone." said Roy, and was surprised by how _definite_ that statement sounded out loud, as if it were a universal fact which could never be altered. "There will always be people who are loyal to me. Rather unlike you, general – I don't seem to remember any of _your_ subordinates sticking around for very long."

Maybe the last part wasn't strictly necessary, but Mustang had been itching to get back at Rourke since this morning.

Rourke snorted in disdain, thoroughly unaffected by the jibe. "Your loyal pets, Mustang? What can they do for you? In fact, what would they be _without_ you? No one can get you out of this – not that Fullmetal brat who is as dysfunctional as you are, but at least he had the good sense to drop out of the military. Not your…ah, rather convenient little whore."

The fury barrelled into Roy like a truck at full speed.

His fingers twitched, as if the itch to just snap and give the asshole exactly what he deserved was rapidly becoming a physical one – they'll be scraping Rourke off the _walls_ once he was done with him. He felt his lips curl into a snarl. "Do _not_ speak of her that way."

"Oh?" said Rourke nonchalantly. "Hit a sore spot there, I see."

Roy lifted his chin, and the snarl on his face morphed into an ever-so-familiar smirk – except that this one was completely devoid of humour. "No matter what you say about them, it doesn't change the fact that I still _have_ them – I still have her. I earned their loyalty through my own actions, which is more than I can say for you. Tell me, _sir_ , where are your loyal subordinates? Why are you the only one down here in this sorry excuse for a place?" At this, Roy's smirk widened. "I guess that without your good old daddy, you're _nothing._ "

The strike caught him unawares.

Before he could react, Rourke had already snapped out a hand and slammed him, _hard_ , into the adjacent wall.

Rourke grabbed the lapels of his jacket, fingers digging into the tough blue fabric, and pushed Roy forcefully against the wall a second time. Roy's head snapped back at the sudden motion and smashed into the hard concrete, making him wince.

"You overstep, _Mustang._ " gritted out Rourke, and my, was he _furious_.

Despite himself, Roy grinned victoriously. It had been many years since the academy, but Roy still knew which of Rourke's buttons to push to gain the best effect.

Maybe Edward was right and he _was_ something of a bastard. And proud of it.

"So now it's perfectly fine for a brigadier general to assault a colonel?" drawled Mustang casually. "Very smooth, sir."

"And what are you going to do? Court-martial me?" Rourke yanked Roy towards him, and Roy could feel his warm breath in his face. "Because when it comes down to it, who is the more believable one? _Me_ – the eldest son of the prestigious Rourke family who has served the Amestrian military for generations, an honourable brigadier general? Or _you_ – the nobody alchemist, a mere yapping dog of the military and a brutal murderer of innocents?" Rourke laughed.

Roy bristled, but kept his cool nonetheless. "I'm no murderer." But even as he uttered those words, that little dark voice at the back of his mind asked: _Are you so sure about that?_

Rourke's fingers tightened on Roy's jacket, and the colonel braced himself for the inevitable punch which he knew he couldn't very well return in favour (it honestly irked him, but Rourke really _did_ have the authority to court-martial him).

There was a sharp knock on the outer door.

"Colonel Mustang?"

Roy nearly melted in relief at the sound of that voice. "Everything's fine, lieutenant!" he called out, cocking a smug eyebrow at Rourke. "I'll be out in a second."

Roy felt Rourke hesitate, before reluctantly letting Mustang go. "We're not done here." he hissed vehemently, and Roy listened to the sweet sound of his footsteps striding away followed by the loud bang of the door swinging close.

Taking a moment to straighten his shirt and jacket (and to make sure that the coast would be clear), Roy exited the men's room and almost walked straight into Hawkeye. "Lieutenant. What happened to Havoc?"

"I dismissed him. He was worried because you were cooped up in there for so long and went to get me." Hawkeye informed Mustang, her tone meaningful. Roy could read in between the lines perfectly fine – most probably Jean had failed to stop Rourke from barging in, and being understandably worried for Mustang's safety, had gone to Hawkeye for assistance.

"Hmph. Havoc has always been such a worrywart. Someone should tell him to loosen up a bit." Roy attempted an amused smirk, but failed miserably.

"I'll be sure to let him know, sir." replied Hawkeye dryly.

Roy nodded, and on a whim, pulled off his gloves.

He held them out to his lieutenant, the rough texture of spark-cloth rustling against his bare palm and making the new scars that decorated its surface tingle.

"Sir?" questioned Hawkeye.

"Could you…hold onto these for me? For safekeeping?" It took some effort to keep his arm outstretched. This would be the equivalent of a sniper surrendering his rifle, or a warrior surrendering his sword. One simply did not hand over the key to one's greatest ability to just anyone.

But Hawkeye…Of course she was different.

Riza seemed to understand, as there was no hesitation when the gloves were promptly plucked from the middle of his open palm. "You can count on me to keep these safe for you, sir. Until you're ready."

Roy smiled, feeling as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Because it was only fitting, to entrust this great power of destruction to the physical manifestation of his moral compass, his guiding hand.

It was almost poetic really, for the person who held his life in the palm of her hand to now hold his ability to take the life of another.

* * *

When Edward and Alphonse had finally made their way to the hotel under Miles's supervision (the major had tracked them down to the Sersan library, and when you thought about it – where the Elric brothers had disappeared to was rather blatantly obvious), they found all the members of Team Mustang, minus its king and queen, gathered in the sparsely furnished lobby.

Miles had departed for the more permanent residence in the form of a small hostel, which he and Scar had been staying in since arriving at Sersa, but not before making sure that the Elrics didn't try and make a spontaneous run for it.

Ed dropped the pile of dusty alchemy books which he'd been carrying onto the floor, leaning on them with a satisfied sigh. "What are you guys doing out here?"

Breda, Falman, Havoc and Fuery were all huddled together on the chairs in the waiting area, conversing in low whispers. At the sound of Ed's voice, they turned around simultaneously and just… _stared._

Edward narrowed his eyes and scowled. "What? If there's something on my face or if Al somehow managed to transmute my hair into a mohawk – _again_ – spit it out."

Al had to put down his own pile of books to raise his hands in a show of innocence. "I swear I didn't do anything, brother."

Breda blinked once and cleared his throat, and the uncomfortable staring instantly ceased as the four men conveniently found something else to do that required their rapt attention. "Nothing…Ed. It's nothing you need to worry about."

Edward's eyes narrowed even further into mere golden slits as he strode into their midst and plopped himself down on one of the sofas. "Okay. Out with it. _What happened?_ "

A brief glaring contest ensued between Havoc and Breda. Havoc apparently won the mental tug-of-war, because Breda dropped his eyes and scoffed as the sandy-haired lieutenant plucked the half-finished cigarette from his lips.

Havoc doused his cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table and sighed deeply. Ed suddenly felt the urge to squirm – he couldn't remember the last time he had seen the always cheerful lieutenant without a playful smile on his face.

Havoc looked up at Ed. "After you…left, the Chief – ugh, how do I explain this?"

He rubbed the back of his head as Falman smoothly moved to finish Havoc's sentence. "The colonel lost control of his alchemy."

Edward felt his stomach promptly drop to the same level as his feet.

Al obviously shared the same sentiment as he leaned over from where he was standing behind his brother's seat, eyes bright with anxiousness. " _What?_ "

Fuery raised his hands and they did jittery sort of dance in the air – Ed suspected that it was supposed to be a reassuring wave, but looked more as if he were flailing his arms in distress. "Don't worry! Nothing really serious happened. I mean, one of our cars backfired, and the colonel was already looking pretty on edge, and after that he kinda startled – and then there was this stray dog who tried to jump on him –"

Edward reached out and clamped a hand over Fuery's babbling mouth. "Fuery," he said through gritted teeth. " _You're not making much sense._ "

"He burned the dog, Edward." clarified Havoc soberly. "Breda and Falman stayed behind for the cleanup. It…wasn't pretty."

"I've seen this before," stated Breda, lounging back in the plush cushions of his chair with a troubled frown on his face. "Remember his first year back from the war? He once flamed that life-sized bust of General Raven by accident because he was spooked by the sound of some plumber banging around on the floor above."

Fuery let out a nervous sort of chuckle. "I certainly remember the general barging in afterwards. Oh boy, was _he_ in a bad mood."

But Fuery's meagre attempt at lightening the heavy atmosphere fell a few metres short of its goal.

"A lot of war veterans do that – jumping at shadows." echoed Havoc, his voice soft and serious. He held an unlighted cigarette in between his fingers, but didn't move to put it to his lips. "The Chief was…I heard it was really bad for him those first few weeks. Same goes for Hawkeye. Whenever I see them like that…sometimes I thank the gods that I wasn't one of the soldiers who had been deployed to Ishval, but sometimes I curse them for it – because if I'd _been_ there, maybe I could have helped… Or at least I would have been able to understand what they've been going through."

Havoc stopped then, and idly placed his cigarette in his mouth, the fact that it wasn't even lighted seeming to have slipped his mind as he chewed on it.

Edward looked down at his lap, watching his fingers twist and strangle the black fabric of his pants. It struck him as funny, really, the irony of how the Fullmetal Alchemist – youngest State Alchemist in Amestrian history – had been scouted by and placed under the command of none other than the Flame Alchemist himself, who had been the record holder before Ed came along.

But then the humour was lost on him when Edward realized that it also meant Mustang was the youngest State Alchemist to have ever gone to _war_. And the colonel had always done everything in his power to make sure that Ed would never be forced to take the life of another human being, never be subjected to the hell which he had gone through.

And despite all the name-calling and mockery which they indulged in, Edward would always be grateful to the colonel for that.

"It's understandable really," said Falman quietly, his Ishvalan culture book now sitting on his lap, crumpled and forgotten. "If you think about it, to compensate for his loss of sight, the colonel's other senses – hearing, smell and touch – have all been amplified dramatically in the past few months. But throw hypersensitivity, Ishval, sudden loud noises and a clearly rabid dog together and…"

Falman bowed his head. "We're lucky that the dog was the _only_ casualty."

Everyone was silent, not knowing how to reply to _that_ logical deduction.

Edward clenched his fists and laid his head back against the sofa, closing his eyes and blowing out a frustrated breath. _Why? Why was it, when he was faced with the one problem that he actually_ needed _to fix – he was helpless to do anything?_

 _Truth really was one massive son-of-a-bitch._

"So, did Hawkeye hook Havoc up in a hotel room next to some hot chick like I asked her to?" The deep, alluring baritone which made Mustang's voice so easily identifiable penetrated the gloomy cloud hovering over their heads.

Ed snapped his eyes open and nearly started out of his chair.

Hawkeye sighed. "Sir, I _told_ you. That's not an order I can execute on military authority."

"Hmph, anything is executable on military authority." snorted Mustang.

Al opened his mouth to greet the colonel and his lieutenant, but was stopped by the frantic shaking of Edward's head before he could utter a word.

"Is everyone here?" Mustang asked, and the four men scrambled to their feet and snapped to a salute.

"Sir!"

"Yes, everyone's here." clarified Fuery timidly.

"Everyone except the Elric brothers, I expect." Mustang raised a tired eyebrow. "Has anyone located Fullmetal yet?"

Havoc started forward to answer that Ed and Al were _standing right there_ but was prevented from doing so by Edward's frantic signposting.

The Fullmetal Alchemist flailed his hands and shook his head so forcefully that it was a wonder it didn't dislodge and fly off. His molten eyes were wide as he mouthed slowly: _Pretend I'm not here._

Havoc blinked. "Uh…"

"Did you say something, Lieutenant Havoc?" asked Mustang, cocking his head to the side. Damn, Ed swore that the man had ears like a bat.

Hawkeye watched Ed's antics and the men's confusion with resigned exasperation. "Colonel," she started. "What Havoc is _trying_ to say is –"

Edward caught her amber gaze and strung his fingers together in a silent plea for help.

" – That Major Miles have found the boys at the library and they're making their way here as we speak." Hawkeye sighed, shooting Edward a stern look. She was obviously not happy about deceiving her colonel at Ed's request, and that look communicated a very clear message: _First and last time. And you'd better have a_ damn _good reason for this._

The others exchanged glances and decided to shut up and follow Hawkeye's lead, Al shooting his brother an incredulous look.

Mustang let out a long sigh that sounded like…relief? "Direct them to their rooms once they arrive. I gather you _did_ reserve an extra room?"

"Of course. It's the one adjoining ours." replied Hawkeye, staring at Edward meaningfully.

"Mmm," Mustang rubbed the back of his neck and suddenly he looked a full decade older, weighed down by exhaustion and the events of that morning. It was probably only due to Mustang's obvious fatigue that Edward hadn't been discovered yet – a sharp Mustang in top form would have missed nothing, blind or otherwise. "It's probably a good thing Fullmetal hasn't shown yet. I haven't decided how I'm going to face him after…all that."

He let his hand drop to his side, and it was then that Ed noticed he wasn't wearing his ignition gloves as usual. "I should…apologize, I guess." he murmured quietly. "It wasn't my place to yell at him."

It took all of Edward's willpower to refrain from making a sound.

The colonel shook his head ruefully. "I'll be in my room if anyone needs me. Men, dismissed."

Team Mustang saluted again as Hawkeye ushered the colonel out of the lobby and towards the stairs (the hotel wasn't big enough to warrant an elevator), Mustang looking just about ready to fall asleep on his feet.

Ed let out the breath which he had been holding in for fear of being found out.

Al instantly rounded on his brother once Mustang was out of earshot. "Brother! What was _that_ all about?"

Every single pair of eyes present turned to glare at him accusingly, and Edward squirmed guiltily for having taken advantage of the colonel's ruined eyesight.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, scuffing a foot against the floor. "It's just –"

Ed angled his face to the heavens and exhaled noisily. "I haven't decided how I'm going to face _him_ either."

* * *

One of the interesting things about being blind was that Roy could remake the world in his own image.

He rather prided himself on an excellent spatial sense, honed from his years of manipulating combustive gases. He knew exactly where everything was in his house and office, which helped dwindle the amount of times he'd stumbled or walked into something he did _not_ remember being there before the Promised Day.

And he was also pretty sure Hawkeye's new rule of 'No Littering' and 'No Leaving Random Things on the Floor which Mustang Can Trip Over' had something to do with that. His office was probably tidier than it'd ever been in years.

But sometimes he would end up at some new location, a space which he had no memory of to reconstruct. When that happened, instead of simply yielding to that vast void of empty blackness (which was boring), he liked to imagine that he could see it in his mind's eye, and that was where the fun started.

So after lunch (in which Hawkeye had basically forced him to eat half a sandwich, ignoring his protests that he wasn't hungry) and a short nap (in which he'd simply crashed on the first couch he'd bumped into), he found himself on a very detailed, guided tour of their hotel room, Hawkeye leading him by the arm.

The logic behind knowing exactly where everything was and the relative size of the area was that Mustang wouldn't be left completely helpless if something – say an attempt on his life, which happened _way_ too many times per given year if you asked him – were to happen. Knowing how big a space he had to work with would also give him the chance to utilize flame alchemy as a last resort.

Roy ran a hand along the far wall of the room, feeling the soft rustle of old wallpaper underneath his fingertips. His bare feet felt the coolness of wooden panels lining the floor. What did Sersan décor look like? He wasn't sure, so that gave him some leeway with the walls. A nice blue colour would suit it well – not the rich navy of Amestris, but rather the soft azure of a summer sky.

Let's see, wooden floors would go beautifully with white furniture – Roy mused vaguely as he located a small shelf by the door on which a vase of flowers balanced precariously. He couldn't quite place their scent, so he decided on carnations.

The living area sported the traditional arrangement of sofa and coffee table. A little further down was a balcony accessible by a floor-to-ceiling sliding door which seemed to be made of glass. Roy was really getting the beach house vibe here.

A small kitchen and dining table off in a corner. Two other doors that led to each of their rooms. There was also an extra door which allegedly led to the suite next door – which the Elric brothers would be setting up residence in temporarily – and when Roy got to it, he was tempted to turn the lock just to see how Ed would react.

Then he felt Hawkeye's cool gaze on his back and thought the better of it.

He was halfway through wondering whether a pink or purple sofa would suit his imaginary colour scheme better when the door slammed open.

There was a loud crash, and Roy guessed that the vase on the shelf had just met its match. Hawkeye clicked her tongue in motherly disapproval.

"What are you doing?" asked Edward in his usual blunt manner, as if 'this morning' had never happened.

The strain in his voice gave him away though.

Roy considered calling him out on it, but decided otherwise. 'This morning' wasn't really a subject he was keen on discussing either. "Just getting a feel for the place." he replied casually.

"Oh." said Ed lamely.

"Brother! Why is there water on the floor?" called out Alphonse's voice in annoyance. "Did you break something again?"

"Sorry." responded Edward automatically, like his heart wasn't really in it.

There a sigh from Al, then a clap of hands and the telltale _swoosh_ of a successful transmutation. "Now look what you've done, brother! You've killed the roses."

Roses.

 _Ah._

Edward made a disinterested noise at the back of his throat and threw himself down on the couch with a teeth-grinding creak of automail joints – pale lavender, Roy decided.

Hawkeye excused herself to prepare dinner. Mustang made the suggestion of getting Xingese takeout, but Hawkeye shot it down as quickly as he had proposed it – since they had a kitchen, they might as well use it, she stated simply. Al volunteered to help.

Left alone in the living room, Roy pretended to study Fullmetal.

Had he gotten any taller since Roy had last seen him?

"So," Ed shifted his weight on the cushions, automail leg whirring. "What's up?"

"Well aren't you a perfect picture of the stereotypical teenager?" commented Roy half-heartedly. He had a couple of jokes concerning puberty and pipsqueaks stored away especially for Ed, but he didn't really feel like deploying them.

Edward snorted in disdain, but remained silent.

After several moments of listening to Alphonse and Hawkeye banging around in the kitchen, Roy gave up on initiating conversation and went to take another nap before dinner was served.

Dinner itself was an awkward affair, as Ed and Al had forsaken their personal room for _their_ dining table over a meal of creamy pasta. Roy, as always, picked at his food before announcing that he was tired and turning in early. He expected some sort of 'lazy ass bastard' jibe from Ed, but the boy had been mysteriously quiet for most of the day.

He hadn't given Roy the opportunity to apologize either. Mustang had been waiting for some sort of opening to cunningly slot a casual-sounding 'I'm sorry for earlier' in between yelled insults, but either Edward was losing his touch or he was.

Roy's chair scraped against the floorboards as he stood up and picked his way towards his room. It had been a crap day and all he wanted to do was sleep it off and forget that any of this ever happened.

The main door opened at that exact moment and he nearly ran into Havoc.

"Chief!" Havoc's voice was instantly recognizable. Mustang's ears perked at the sound of splashing fluid and clinking glass as Havoc shifted in the doorway. "Up for a game of cards in our room? Falman has the betting pool open."

"I'll pass," answered Roy. "What've you got there?"

Havoc chuckled lowly. "Whiskey. Local product. I heard it's so terrible it's a must try in Sersan tourism."

Roy held out a hand expectantly. "Let's find out, then."

There was a hesitant pause. "Uh, the whole _bottle_ , sir?"

"It's not like you didn't buy extra," said Roy irritably. "Besides, I only want a glass."

Havoc sounded uncertain. "But Hawkeye –"

"Is busy with the dishes." finished Roy confidently.

The blonde-haired sniper didn't sound very convinced at all.

"Look, do you _want_ me to pull rank on you?"

Havoc muttered something illegible before handing the bottle over. Mustang weighed it in his hand and smiled at the familiar slosh of alcohol against smooth glass.

It brought back memories. Of good times and warm food and half-drunken confessions to a grinning man with rimmed glasses and olive eyes.

"Just one glass." said Havoc, but it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"Just one." confirmed Mustang with gusto, though it wouldn't be the first time he'd lied to a subordinate.

Just before he shut the door, Mustang could hear Havoc moving into the kitchen to make the same offer of cards to the Elrics, who both agreed with muted enthusiasm.

Roy groped around awkwardly until he found the curved wooden frame of his bed, and sat down heavily against it. He leaned his head against the bed frame before cursing the fact that he didn't have a glass.

Uncorking the bottle, he tipped it against his lips instead, feeling the thick liquid pour down his throat like fire. He coughed and spluttered, resting the bottle against his knee.

Havoc was right. It _was_ terrible.

Roy stretched out his legs as he took another swig of strong alcohol, his toes snagging against the edge of a furry carpet. Roy cocked his head and wondered…

There was a piece of chalk which he carried around perpetually in his pocket. He wasn't sure how many more draughts of haze-inducing Sersan whiskey it took for him to think that using it would be a good idea.

* * *

 _Fullmetal._

Colonel Mustang was seated at his much-loved table, his fingers folded neatly on top of its mahogany surface.

Edward blinked. The familiar backdrop of the colonel's East City office had faded into black and white and muted tones of grey.

 _The colour of rain._

 _Fullmetal._ The colonel repeated, though Ed didn't see his lips move. A creamy envelope, dazzlingly white in this dull world, had appeared in his hands. He pushed it across the table towards Edward. _Congratulations. Your resignation has been approved._

Ed cautiously made his way towards Mustang, the niggling feeling that something wasn't quite right here snagging at his heels, punctuating his footsteps with uncertainty.

 _Thank you?_

Mustang smiled, but the smile held no meaning behind it.

Blank. A live doll's.

 _Go back to Resembool, Edward. Go back and forget all about this. All about me._

Edward snapped his head up just as his fingertips touched the edge of the envelope. He tried to deny that no, he wasn't forgetting _anything_ , but his voice wouldn't work.

 _Liar. Charlatan. Ungrateful._ The shadows hissed and shivered.

Edward cried out soundlessly and tried to step back as ribbons of darkness reared up from behind the colonel's table. He looked up, but Mustang wasn't there anymore – was never there to begin with.

Edward wasn't stupid, so he forced himself awake just before the writhing darkness could engulf him.

He found himself sprawled spread-eagle on the cold floor of his hotel room.

Ed wondered briefly how he had gotten there, before shrugging and sitting up, rubbing his eyes. _Damn those nightmares._

He almost expected Alphonse to materialize next to him, as he'd done all those countless times when he was still a suit of armour. Un-sleeping and dreamless, Edward would shiver against Al's metal breastplate as his brother held him close, breathing soft words of reassurance into his ear or sometimes, if the nightmare had been really bad, not saying anything at all.

But Al – human and dreaming – would be sleeping at this hour, just like any other normal teenager with even a sliver of common sense.

Ed picked himself off the floor, eyes passing over the alchemy books strewn across the quilted cushions of their couch. He remembered now – the troubled insomniac, lying awake in the bottom bunk of the bed he shared with Al. He had given up on falling asleep long after Al had passed out, opting to read in the living area instead. He hadn't realized he had nodded off until the nightmare.

Edward's throat felt dry.

His thoughts unwillingly turned to the colonel in his dream – one second there and the next second _gone_ – and he conveniently recalled seeing a jug of water on the kitchen counter next door when the brothers had been over for dinner.

Trying to justify his rather flimsy excuse, Ed moved towards the door separating their suite and the larger one shared by Mustang and Hawkeye. He turned the knob, and was pleasantly surprised when it opened noiselessly at his slightest touch. Edward had figured Mustang would lock the dividing door as soon as he got the chance to do so, all just to spite the golden-eyed boy.

So Edward tiptoed his way into the dark room, noting vaguely that the ticking clock perched on the wall announced the time as five minutes to four. He got himself that glass of water he'd ( _ahem_ ) gone there for, and after a moment of slight hesitation, decided that _since_ he just _happened_ to be here, he _may as well_ go check on Mustang. _Just to make sure_ that there hadn't been a repeat of the previous night's incident onboard the train.

Feeling rather guilty and childishly silly at the same time, Ed crept across the wooden floorboards, automail foot clanking and creaking with every step despite his admirable efforts at ninja-stealth.

He stopped in front of Mustang's door, and with a wince at the almost impossible loudness of tumbling mechanisms as the knob was turned, opened it a crack.

The darkness beyond the door was absolute and stifling, and Ed allowed his night vision a moment to adjust. The vague forms of a small bed and wardrobe emerged from the shadows as mangled black shapes, and Edward squinted, hoping to find a humanoid figure amongst the bed sheets, rolled up in blankets and sleeping fitfully.

But maybe that was too much to ask for.

For instead, Ed's line of vision was hijacked by something white and gleaming on the floorboards.

Edward gasped and fumbled desperately for the switch.

The room was instantly flooded with pale light.

Ed gaped in horror at the large transmutation circle sketched in dazzling chalk on dark brown wood. The bed had been pushed out of the way against the wall, and a rug was thrown haphazardly into a corner to make room.

It was an exact copy of the circle he'd used for human transmutation. _The one which he had used to get to the Gate of Truth._

 _No._ His mind blatantly refused to accept what its presence in this room could mean – or _meant_.

Edward swept his eyes over the rest of the room's interior, scanning desperately for _something_ – he wasn't sure what. A pool of blood? A blackened corpse? His heart hammered against his ribcage. He wanted to turn around and scream for help.

Then his frantic gaze snagged on a strangely small figure curled up against the wall, dark hair spilling like ink onto the parquet.

Edward was by his side and shaking the broad shoulders of the motionless colonel in a flash, and the once-alchemist didn't even bother to hide the quivering of his hands nor the frenzied tempo of his motions.

"Goddamn it! Colonel! Mustang, wake up!" Edward was shouting now, terror washing through every syllable.

Mustang groaned softly and turned over, and Ed realized that he was still _breathing_. One eye cracked open, revealing a dull grey iris.

Edward had never been so happy to see Mustang blind before.

Still, he quickly checked the man for missing limbs or appendages, and finding none, sat back on his haunches, limp with relief.

"Uh?" offered the colonel blearily, and his response was so anticlimactic that Ed would have laughed if he didn't feel like punching him in the face.

Edward scrubbed a hand over his forehead. "Oh god…" he breathed weakly. "You…you…"

Ed was still trying to come up with a suitable vulgarity which encompassed the extent of his hatred for the man who had scared him half to death _twice_ in as many nights when the telltale stench of heavy alcohol stung his nostrils.

Edward then noticed the near-empty bottle lying next to Mustang's arm. A few remaining drops of amber liquid sparkled merrily beneath the ceiling lights.

Ed put two and two together, and promptly exploded. "OF ALL OF THE STUPID THINGS YOU DECIDED TO DO _…WHAT THE HELL?_ "

His clearly intoxicated ex-superior provided no response save for a low moan and a sluggish turn of the head.

Edward grabbed him by the shoulders and literally dragged Mustang up till he was propped against the wall. The colonel groaned again, more loudly this time. "Hawwkeye," he complained, his words slurred and jumbled. "It's too _eaarrrly._ "

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS _THAT_ TRANSMUTATION CIRCLE DOING IN YOUR ROOM?"

"Ugh…Fullmetal?" Mustang swiped a hand unsteadily in front of his face. "Iz tat you?"

"Yes! Fullmetal! Now answer the bloody question!"

"Quessstion?" repeated Mustang with drunken severity. He blinked once and grinned stupidly. "What question?"

Edward inhaled slowly through his nostrils, but his temper was rising faster than he could contain it. "The. Transmutation. Circle." he gritted out.

"Ohhh, this?" asked Mustang with comical innocence, scratching a fingernail against the border of the outermost circle. His hands were white with chalk residue, but to Edward's eyes, they might as well be covered in blood. "I learrrrnt this – from you, Fullmetal."

And just like that, Edward's anger dissipated. "Me?"

"From the house." said Mustang simply, his head bobbing up and down as he nodded tipsily. It took Edward a full second to realize that the colonel meant _his_ house. The one which he and Al had burnt down. The one which bore evidence of their terrible sin.

Edward stared out over the dreadful array, noting its perfect detail from the sprawling outer border right down to the spiralling epicentre, sprinkled with alchemical symbols and commands which he knew by heart. The circle wasn't the neatest one Ed had ever seen, but it was still very much _functional_.

Mustang had drawn this. After seeing it _once_ more than six years ago, and only one other time during the Promised Day. _Blind._

And Ed remembered, remembered how easy it was to forget – that hidden behind a flawless façade of bastardly smiles and lazy gestures, the Flame Alchemist was as much an alchemical genius as Edward was.

Edward shook his head and yanked at his golden hair in frustration, trying to decide between feeling impressed and feeling angry. He settled on going back to the more familiar emotion – angry.

Mustang was slowly nodding off, head drooping against his chest. Ed seized hold of his shoulders and shook him awake. "What –" Edward took a breath to force out the dreaded words through clenched teeth. "What were you trying to _do?_ "

Mustang blinked at him as if it should have been obvious. "Equivalent Exchange."

Ed could barely make out his words, as slurred by drink as they were, but that was a familiar enough term to send a shiver down his spine. "You wanted – You wanted to exchange something with Truth for your sight?"

Mustang grinned and shot Edward a slightly tipsy _Bingo!_ gesture – except that it was directed in completely the wrong direction. "Mhmm…Was just thinking bout it. Must have…nodded off." The colonel pushed himself off the wall, sliding down till his head was resting on the floorboards.

He closed his eyes. Ed gritted his teeth and shook Mustang until they snapped blearily open again. "What were you going to…sacrifice?"

"Mm, I dunno…" murmured Mustang, his voice pitching strangely in a way which Edward would have found funny in any other situation. "I was thinking my alchemy? You did that too, didn't you? Ergh…Then I thought that – you know, I'm kinda useless without my alchemy…So I decided – what the heck, Truth can have whatever it wants. A hand maybe?"

Mustang raised his right arm, wriggling his fingers in front of his face and squinting like he could see them if he just focused hard enough. "I'm not sure what Truth would do with my hand though. I'm sure it has plenty of those already." he giggled in a very disconcerting way. "We could be automail buddies! Eh, Fullmetal?"

Edward grabbed the colonel by the collar of his shirt, feeling sick to his stomach. "DAMMIT – _WHY?_ WHY WOULD YOU EVEN _CONSIDER_ SOMETHING LIKE THAT? I TOLD –" Ed's breath caught shakily in his throat. "I _promised_ I would fix you."

"Fix? Fullmetal, I'm a little too broken and tarnished to _fix_ by now," said Mustang, and while his articulation was still unclear, the clarity of his words was crystal. "And with what? The Philosopher's Stone?"

"Yes!" Edward, sensing an opening, leapt for it. "I told you, Ling –"

Mustang laughed humourlessly, the sharp, chilling sound of it cutting off Edward's words. "Oh, Fullmetal. I _lied_."

Every last one of Edward's thought processes grinded to a halt. "What?"

"I lied, I lied." Mustang chanted playfully and smirked. "My problem isn't with Ling – it's with the _Stone_. After all, I personally asked Dr. Marcoh to destroy the first one, so _why_ _the hell_ would I want to have anything to do with a second?"

Edward blinked. His fingers went limp, and Mustang dropped back to the ground with an offended grunt.

 _He…_

 _Told Dr. Marcoh…_

 _The stupid bastard_ lied _to me._

Then the full realization of it – of Mustang _destroying_ the Stone, of obliterating his chances of ever regaining his sight with his own two hands – slammed into Edward. He felt as if he were standing directly below a waterfall, icy water crashing down his head and neck.

He was stuck. Trapped in a misty haze. His vision shimmered, and before he knew it, Edward had grasped the front of Mustang's shirt, drew back his arm, and drove a fist into the side of the colonel's face.

Mustang's head snapped back against the floorboards from the sheer force of Edward's punch, and he ended up groaning on the ground, eyes fluttering shut.

"You _SELFISH_ bastard!" screamed Edward. "Do you ever _THINK_ about anyone else other than yourself? Did you even consider how guilty everyone must feel – how much Havoc and goddamn it, _Al_ are blaming themselves over an egotistical asshole like you! Have you ever considered –"

Edward's enraged screams dissolved into a choked sob which he slapped a palm over his mouth to muffle. The Fullmetal Alchemist sank to the floor, cupping his face in his hands.

 _Have you ever considered how much it_ hurts _for other people to watch you hurt yourself?_

"Edward?"

Ed's head jerked up reflexively, and he blinked, blurred eyes focusing on the slender figure standing in the doorway.

Hawkeye was dressed in pale blue pyjamas, corn silk hair cascading down her shoulders like spilled gold. Edward so rarely saw her out of uniform that if not for the revolver in her hands, he would have mistaken her for a complete stranger.

Hawkeye's sharp gaze flickered from Edward's surprised expression down to Mustang's limp form.

She moved quickly, and was already crouching next to the colonel before Ed could even utter a word in his defence. Setting her gun down on the floor, she swiftly checked Mustang's pulse as the dark-haired man murmured incoherently into her arm.

Hawkeye took note of the empty whiskey bottle lying forgotten on the floor, then flitted her eyes back to the colonel's face to examine the dark red welt already forming on his cheek. Edward winced guiltily at the sight of it – Mustang was going to have one hell of a bruise come morning.

Hawkeye turned her head and raised one unamused eyebrow at Edward.

Ed swallowed and hung his head.

Hawkeye exhaled softly. "Help me get him up."

Edward raised his head and nodded wordlessly.

Between the two of them – Hawkeye hoisting one shoulder and Edward clinging onto the other – they managed to get the half-conscious colonel off the floor and into his bed. Ed ran his eyes worriedly down the length of his body as Hawkeye shook out the covers and set about tucking him in – he hadn't noticed up till now, how easily his arm had looped around Mustang's waist, when he was certain the man had been much better-built just several months ago. How his entire stature basically consisted of thin bone and dry skin. Edward had observed Mustang's lack of appetite during dinner, but he hadn't considered it being a running occurrence.

Hawkeye pulled the covers up more firmly to her superior's chin as Mustang shifted and mumbled in his slumber, eyelids flitting with long ago memories.

Edward watched as Hawkeye's fingers fluttered tenderly down the side of his pale face like a tired butterfly, before she caught herself and withdrew her hand.

"Did you know?" he asked quietly.

Hawkeye looked up, her amber gaze catching Edward's.

"Yes."

Ed's mouth twisted into a strangely bitter smile. At least he'd still had the decency to be honest with _her_. "Do you know why?"

Hawkeye pressed her lips together into a thin line. "Yes."

"Then _why?_ " Despite his efforts, Edward couldn't keep just a sliver of desperation from slipping into his vocal chords.

The lieutenant dropped Edward's gaze. Her eyes shifted as if on their own accord, and she watched the colonel, her expression serene and calm. "I think it would be better if he told you himself." she paused. "But I can tell you this: when Dr. Marcoh came to visit and offered him his help, he said…"

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "He said that if he did that, Fullmetal wouldn't be very pleased with him at all."

Edward clenched his fists. "The idiot." he muttered.

"There were Ishvalan lives in that stone, Edward." said Hawkeye seriously. "I just hope that, no matter what happens from now on, you'll remember that he _does_ have his reasons for refusing your help. But that he's grateful you're trying nonetheless."

Edward raised his eyes to see Hawkeye smiling gently at him. But her eyes, those brilliant sherry orbs, were full of soft sadness.

Ed suddenly found his automail toes to be extremely interesting works of art. "I know. I'm sorry I hit him."

Hawkeye gave him a bemused look, like: _I knew it._ "That's something which you should tell him yourself."

Edward scrubbed the back of his neck. "You know how we operate. We just don't _apologize_ to each other."

Hawkeye shook her head and gradually dropped to a crouch next to Mustang's bed. "Could you turn the light off on your way out, Edward?"

Ed didn't argue.

But just before he flipped the switch, he caught Hawkeye leaning over the colonel out of his peripheral vision, brushing away a few stray strands of obsidian hair from his face and gently pressing her lips to his forehead.

Mustang shifted beneath the thick blankets, a slight smile gracing his slumbering countenance.

Edward looked away as Hawkeye stood to follow him out of the room.

He adhered to the unspoken rule, and pretended that he hadn't seen anything at all.

* * *

Despite all the deliberate threats and promises of bodily harm he threw around on a nearly daily basis, Edward had only ever punched Colonel Roy Mustang twice in his life.

The first time had been during the whole Maria Ross fiasco, and while no one could certainly blame him for assaulting the colonel in his sudden fit of rage ( _seriously,_ he thought Mustang had _murdered_ her in cold blood!), Ed still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling of remorse when the full truth had been brought to light.

But he had never apologized for the incident – there were simply too many other _important_ matters to take care of. Besides, the colonel didn't seem to hold a lasting grudge against Edward over the entire misunderstanding (in fact, the bastard had simply smirked and said something along the lines of Ed making the entire routine just _that_ much more believable).

A routine. An act. Mustang seemed to think of life as one huge-ass performance.

Edward propped an elbow on the table as he fumed, pushing his omelette around on his plate with the sharp prongs of his fork. He broke the fragile white skin and it bled golden yolk.

Alphonse watched his brother in obvious worry as Edward's eyes darted ever so often to the still-closed door of Mustang's room. It was nearing noon and the colonel was _still_ sleeping off his hangover?

"Are you okay, brother?"

Ed _mmm_ ed unconvincingly, stabbing his fork into his omelette and inflicting yet another mortal wound. "Yea…it's just –" he paused in the assault of his lunch. "Do you think I should apologize?"

Edward could feel Al's uncertain gaze on him. He still felt guilty about waking his younger brother up at literally four in the morning and shovelling random information over his head as Al had blinked in sleepy confusion.

Once Al had calmed Edward down enough for him to speak in coherent sentences, and the full story had been told in shaky whispers, Al had slumped back with a sort of horrified realization.

The Elric brothers hadn't decided on their next course of action in light of this new circumstance. Force the colonel to go with them to Xing anyways? Knock him out and tie him up? Or respect his wishes and leave?

 _No – not leave. Leaving is out of the question._

"I think…you yourself should decide. Whether you want to apologize or not." Al offered Edward a small smile. "But I'm sure he knows how you feel about it no matter what you do."

Ed stared at his broken, imperfect omelette. _I'm a little too broken and tarnished to_ fix _by now._

Before he could make up his mind, however, the door on the far side of the room creaked open and a _very_ hung-over Colonel Mustang emerged.

Staggering unsteadily to the dining table, the black-haired man stubbed his toe once on his chair, cursed, and sat down.

A dark bruise had blossomed just beneath his right cheekbone, and was visible enough that Edward cringed at the sight of it.

Mustang groaned and plonked his forehead onto the wooden surface of the table. "Ohh…My head…"

Edward scoffed most unsympathetically at the mumbled complaints. "Serves you right, Colonel Bastard."

"Shut up, pipsqueak." came the reply, muffled by the table.

"Colonel-Useless-In-The-Rain!"

"Unaffected-by-puberty-shrimp."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SHORT!?"

Mustang moaned and cupped his hands over his ears. "Okay, okay, I yield. Your voice is wreaking havoc on my head right now."

Edward sat back in his chair with a huff. "That'll teach you to keep away from alcohol."

"I'm a grown man, Fullmetal. Alcohol is just another part of life."

"Well, not when you get so delirious and drunk afterwards that you actually _think_ it's a good idea to –" Ed stopped in mid-rant and crossed his arms instead, trying to steady his beating heart. He would never admit it, but he was _shaken_ – absolutely shaken by the previous night.

Mustang wasn't listening though, as he still had his face against the table and was tenderly nursing what had to be a splitting migraine.

Only the _plonk!_ of a plate being set down in front of him made him raise his head blearily.

"Your lunch, sir." said Hawkeye evenly, setting down a steaming mug of aromatic tea next to his plate. "We have a meeting with the Grand Cleric in an hour – you should probably consider getting cleaned up before then."

Mustang blinked and slapped a hand to his forehead. "Why didn't you wake me up _earlier_ , Hawkeye?"

"It wouldn't have done your hangover any good, sir." Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. "The tea should help with that as well."

Mustang groaned softly but reached for the handle of the mug anyways, raising it to his lips with a murmured sound of gratitude.

"And sir? We're going to have to talk about your…uncalled for behaviour last night." added Hawkeye nonchalantly. "After the meeting."

She turned around and stalked towards the kitchen, ignoring the colonel's spluttered protests and claims of innocence.

Edward didn't even try to hide his snigger. "Looks like someone's in trouble."

Mustang frowned and went back to sipping his tea, sighing appreciatively as the soothing liquid managed to counter the worst effects of his alcohol-induced headache. "Give me a break, Fullmetal. This entire trip has just been one disaster after another."

Ed thought that Mustang's entire _life_ (in fact, both of their lives) had been one disaster after another, but held his tongue.

The Elric brothers and the colonel sat in comfortable silence for a moment as Mustang finished his tea and poked curiously at his plate.

"Hawkeye made us omelettes." supplied Al helpfully.

Mustang smiled slightly. "She's an amazing cook. A lot of people overlook that particular talent of hers."

Another pause. Edward squirmed, his fingers twitching. He inhaled, about to just get on with the apology and be done with it.

"You know, Fullmetal, I had the most…intriguing dream last night." drawled Mustang casually, still probing his omelette with more inquisitiveness than a limp piece of fried egg warranted.

Edward fumbled to a baffled stop. "Huh?"

"In the dream…I was doing something. Well, something that obviously made you angry enough to punch me." Mustang smirked. "I think it hurt."

"You probably deserved it." Edward sat up in his chair and replied with a straight face. "But…I guess my dream-self should still apologize for hitting you."

"Hmph. Well, I _was_ probably doing something really stupid, so I apologize on behalf of my dream-self for that." said Mustang noncommittally.

A small grin tugged at the corners of Edward's mouth. "My dream-self forgives you."

"Likewise." Mustang took a bite out of his omelette and chewed contemplatively. "Fullmetal, how would you and Al like to be part of the meeting today?"

Edward's eyes widened. "You mean with the Grand Cleric?" _And after what happened the last time?_

"What else could I mean?" Mustang shrugged. "After all, you _were_ one of the most renowned alchemists in Amestris, and civilian feedback is always appreciated."

Edward felt his smile stretching, nearly encompassing most of his face. "Yes. I mean – it's better than waiting outside. Besides, the boring discussions could use some lightening up."

Mustang cocked an eyebrow. "Not _too_ much 'lightening up', I hope."

"We'll see about that."

And on the sidelines, Alphonse watched this exchange with no small amount of amusement.

For while they never apologized to each other, they sure found strange ways of expressing those sentiments – the _I'm sorry_ s and _Thank you for that_ s – hidden just beneath the surface.


	6. Chapter 6 - Rain

**Author's Note:  
**

 **This chapter was ridiculously fun to write (especially the last few scenes). So enjoy the light-heartedness while you still can! (I can sense some foreshadowing here...)  
**

 **On a more solemn note, I'll probably be taking a break from updates next week. The story is finally reaching a really delicate part of the plot, and I think the ridiculously long chapters which I know I should stop writing have finally worn me out. (Depending on whether I complete the next chapter in time, I may still post next week, but stay tuned!)**

 **Reply to Red: Yes, that OVA was one of my very favourites as well! And that's _exactly_ the reason why I decided to write this story (the entire plot probably hinges on me thinking that Mustang probably wouldn't have used the Philosopher's Stone - hence the whole AU tangent). I find your take on the whole 'apology' thing interesting, as I think that while Mustang probably did do the right thing in ordering Edward out, it still didn't feel 'right' to him, per say. Anyways, thanks for the review and cheers!**

 **Reply to emmahoshi: Apologies, I absolutely have no idea how to reply to guest reviews XD, so I'll be sticking to the A/N for now. I actually live in Australia, so it sometimes slips my mind that 90 percent of the world probably runs on an earlier schedule than us. (And yes he probably is just the slightest bit depressed over his situation). I'm glad you enjoyed the visualization scene and thanks! :)  
**

 **Reply to Triolet: Thank you for the awesome review (and lol) XD.**

 **As always, thanks for the support and THANK YOU for reading!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own FMA or any songs that may have been used in the making of this chapter (unless I made up the lyrics myself).**

* * *

 _Chapter 6 – Rain_

They first met on a rainy day.

 _The fair-haired sergeant with eyes like the fathomless sky – as his mother used to boast – sat at the mahogany-topped bar of the most expensive pub in East City and mourned his predicament._

 _The gloomy weather which had stubbornly persisted over the squat Eastern buildings since the beginning of the week wasn't helping his mood at all, and even now he could make out the telltale_ pitter-patter _of raindrops drumming against the windowpanes over the conversational din of the bar._

 _The young solider had risen through the ranks at a relatively rapid pace since his graduation barely a year ago, but he seriously suspected that the 'simple', 'not-too-bright' vibe he inadvertently radiated had something to do with that._

 _He knew, full well, the whispers being muttered behind his back. The simple boy from the faraway countryside – they would snigger – who just wants to do his nation good. Naïve. Unrealistic. Oh, but we can make use of that._

 _He knew, full well, that his superiors saw his blunt, straight-forward mindset to be a sign that he was an easily manipulated marionette – a loyal soldier who would jerk and dance at the slightest twitch of his strings. That was why he was promoted so quickly – the several commanding officers he had worked under at Central probably thought it was more useful to have a high-ranking puppet rather than a low-ranking one._

 _Yes, he admitted his grades weren't the best at the academy. Yes, he admitted he didn't really have much in the form of talent save for a relative proficiency at sniping and following orders. Yes, he admitted he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, or even the brightest. Yes, he admitted he had a_ stupid _country accent which wouldn't go away no matter how many times he practiced his vocal chords in front of his bathroom mirror. But what he_ wouldn't _admit was that he was a puppet who just anyone could control._

 _And so after that_ one _unreasonable command, after that_ one _blatant rejection of following orders…_

 _Well, let's just say one thing led to another._

 _And here he was, all alone in an East City bar, after that_ one _promising girlfriend had dumped him, and his new Eastern colleagues had picked on his country-boy accent_ again _._

 _Maybe his Ma was right and he_ was _foolish in thinking that the military could offer him a bright future. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this life of shady manoeuvres and manipulative superiors._

 _He inhaled deeply, feeling the numbing smoke fill his lungs, before blowing it out between his lips, his last cigarette of the week perched in between two fingers. He should drop by the convenience store later to replenish his supply. East City probably had crappy cigarettes._

 _But…he amended, as a head of lush golden hair flashed past him – in terms of the ladies, East City wasn't too bad at all._

 _His head snapped around and he stretched up in his seat, probably looking rather comical as he stuck his neck above the milling high-class crowd with brushed suits and polished shoes like a blonde ostrich, trying to catch a glimpse of that sparkly scarlet dress and that even sparkl-ier golden hair which had brushed past him just moments ago._

 _The young woman who had drawn his eye was sitting a few seats down the bar, a makeup case held up in front of her face as she smeared sexy lipstick over puckered lips. The low V-shaped neckline of her dazzling dress drooped with her heavy…_ ahem _…assets, and the soldier couldn't help but gape._

 _Okay, he took back everything bad he'd ever said about East City. Because the ladies here were just…_ whoa.

 _Sitting back down and racking his brains over a way to initiate contact with his future girlfriend (ahem, he may be getting just a little ahead of himself here), the young soldier brightened as his eyes snagged on the glass of expensive whiskey sitting in front of the bar-goer next to him, the tantalizing amber liquid glinting like golden stars._

 _He placed an elbow on the bar-top and leaned forwards, adopting the most casual, 'cool-guy' expression he could muster. "Hey, bartender. The most expensive drink on the menu for the lady in red over there." he grinned as he put the cigarette back in his mouth. "On the house, of course."_

 _The bartender didn't so much as give him an eyebrow-raise before whipping up some bizarre, glamorous-looking cocktail, popping a glittery red umbrella on top with a flourish before smoothly delivering the glass to the pretty lady._

 _The bartender and the woman exchanged a few words, in which she raised one perfect golden eyebrow and glanced down the bar._

 _The sergeant made sure to put on his most dashing smile as he leaned heavily against the bar and waved._

 _Her eyebrow cocked just a little bit higher at the sight of him, and she raised her very expensive cocktail in a gesture of thanks before dunking it down in one go._

 _She chatted with the bartender and fumbled with the purse on her lap for another good half-hour before apparently deciding that she'd had enough of pubs for the night and standing up with a swish_ _of crimson fabric._

 _The blonde-haired soldier was waiting for her as she strolled down the aisle._

 _But when she didn't turn to look at him, he decided to take matters into his own hands and stumbled out of his chair, blocking her way with his body._

 _"Uh…" he suddenly realized that he had not the slightest idea what to do when faced with such a lovely lady. "Hi?"_

 _She flashed an annoyed look at him. "What do you want?"_

 _"Oh, nothing!" he raised both hands in a show of innocence. "I was just wondering if…um…you'll like to go out for dinner Saturday night?"_

Shit. That must be, hands down, the worse way to ask a beautiful stranger out on a date.

 _The woman scanned him up and down, sweeping her eyes over his slightly crumpled uniform and the sergeant's stars on his shoulder before casting him a pitiful look. "Sorry. I already have a boyfriend."_

 _"Oh." his soaring heart immediately crash landed. Not-so-much-future-girlfriend after all. "I'm sorry to have bothered you then, miss."_

 _The ravishing lady in red simply shrugged, tossing perfect blonde locks back over her shoulder. "That's alright."_

 _She tried to brush past him, but his frozen legs wouldn't move out of the way._

 _As a result, her hip bumped against his side and the purse in her hand was jolted out of her grasp, clattering to the floor._

 _"Let me get that for you –" he spluttered hastily, but before he could even start forward, one gloved hand reached down out of nowhere and swept the purse up gracefully._

 _The soldier blinked in astonishment and looked up at the man seated directly next to him. The one with the expensive-looking whiskey._

 _He smirked and held the purse out towards its owner, and when he spoke, his voice was casual yet deep in an almost sensual way. "I believe this belongs to you."_

 _The woman put her hand to her mouth in mock bashfulness. "Oh! Thank you so much!"_

 _The sergeant glared at this unexpected opponent with a dangerously twitching eye. He was tall and roughly his age, a sleek grey fedora perched upon a head of slightly tousled black hair. Eyes like twin obsidian shards glinted in amusement beneath the rim of his hat, and as he raised a hand to casually rebut the lady's gushing gratitude, the sergeant caught the flash of a complex array on the back of his glove._

An alchemist.

 _"I couldn't help but notice the monstrosity of a drink you were having just then," the stranger told the woman, his voice the warm purr of a cat. "If you wouldn't mind me recommending the_ Montoya Cabernet _served here – it's an absolutely delightful variety of red wine which complements your elegance most distinctively."_

 _The golden-haired lady blushed and smiled. "Oh yes, I would like that very much."_

 _The young soldier narrowed his eyes, but he knew, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, that he had lost. How was it possible to compete against this obviously seasoned Romeo? So confident, so_ sure. _Night-black hair contrasting strikingly against pale alabaster skin, he emanated a certain allure found only amongst exotic mystical creatures – unique and eye-catching._

 _The blonde soldier – plain and pretty much unexciting – couldn't hold a candle to him._

 _The woman batted her eyelashes and sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately, I really_ do _need to get going now, but…" she rummaged around in her purse before extracting a dainty handkerchief and a tube of brilliant red lipstick._

 _Perching the cap in between those irresistibly full lips, she wrote down her number in the corner of the smooth white fabric, her handwriting small and cursive. With a wink, she handed it to the black-haired man. "Rain check?"_

 _He raised his eyebrows. "I'll be more than delighted to."_

 _Her apple-red lips stretched into a prettily constructed smile, and she touched a finger to her mouth in an unspoken promise before whirling around and striding out of the bar._

 _The droning of rain against the stone sidewalks of East City briefly filled the warm, musty space as the door swung open, and vanished as it swung close again._

 _The soldier regarded the onyx-eyed stranger with a healthy dosage of blatant dislike._

 _Said man simply smirked condescendingly and twirled the lacy handkerchief in his fingers, his tone empathetic. "That was the_ dumbest _attempt at asking a woman out that I have ever seen."_

 _The soldier scowled, cigarette dangling._

 _He was just about to give the man a very physical piece of his mind when the stranger stopped twirling the handkerchief and regarded the sergeant, his gaze strangely serious. "But you certainly have guts. And that's something I value in any soldier."_

 _The sergeant's brain stalled, stumbling like an old car shifting gears._ This guy was military?

 _Then the smirk returned, and he coolly extracted a pen from his coat pocket, uncapping it and scribbling something on the back of the lady's handkerchief. "Hawkeye was right about you."_

 _Hawkeye?_ _He knew_ Hawkeye _?_

 _The dark stranger handed him the handkerchief with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. "A tip: never show a woman how badly you desire her. Ladies avoid lovey-dovey men like the plague." he cocked an eyebrow. "But if you're ever looking for a more…let's say_ fulfilling _job in the military, my office number is on the back."_

 _And with that, he tipped his fedora towards the soldier and stood from his seat, coattails rustling._

 _The sergeant watched him with a dumbstruck expression as he sauntered towards the entrance, opened the door, glared murderously up at the pouring clouds, and exited._

 _When he got home, the young soldier with the sky blue eyes pondered over the baffling mystery of the handkerchief with no small amount of bewilderment._

 _But when he finally decided to take a chance, it wasn't the number in sexy red he called, but the one in black on the back._

It was raining now, tapping fingers on frosted glass, hissing mists and pounding thunder.

Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc swore as he jumped at a particularly loud boom from the crying heavens, smashing the back of his head against the upper panel of the cupboard.

Groaning as he removed his head from the enclosed space, Jean rubbed his scalp and mournfully picked up the still-smoking cigarette which had been jerked out from between his lips.

Momentarily contemplating whether the three-second-rule also applied to cigarettes, Jean shrugged and popped it back into his mouth before resuming his search.

The Accounting Department had just come in with the claim that one of Edward's property damage tabs wasn't satisfactorily cleared yet. Which was bullshit, if Hawkeye's slight obsessive-compulsiveness when it came to paperwork had anything to say about that.

And with neither the colonel nor the lieutenant having arrived at work yet, Fuery out buying breakfast and Falman and Breda having found rather convenient tasks to claim busyness over, Havoc – poor, poor Havoc who had just been released from physical therapy barely a week ago, he tried to argue – was stuck rummaging through the colonel's file cabinets and shelves looking for that stupid damage report from a year back.

After all these years, he should have known how unsympathetic his colleagues could be when it came to anything associated with the word _work_.

An old oak bookshelf sat forgotten in the corner of the colonel's private office, its upper shelves protected by glass and revealing its contents to be obscure alchemy books with titles Jean couldn't even hope to pronounce. But beneath the visible shelves were two small cupboards with tarnished golden knobs, and Jean's search had led him to the first one.

Giving up on it after banging his head, he decided to move on to the second, tugging and pulling with effort at the small knobs.

The little wooden doors rattled but barely budged, and Havoc leaned down, eyeing the small keyhole underneath one of the knobs and wondering if it was locked or just stuck.

He frowned and tugged at it again, harder, and this time, the rusted hinges gave way and the doors flew open.

Jean found himself on the floor, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed over him, mercilessly assaulting his nose. _Jeez, does the Chief do_ any _spring-cleaning?_

He sneezed once and clambered onto his hands and knees, glaring at the open cupboard.

Until his sharp cerulean eyes alighted on the various thick tomes and books strewn across the carpet, like tired prisoners released from punishment in solitary confinement.

Havoc picked up a particularly heavy one and dusted off the cover curiously. Why were these books locked away from prying eyes, instead of being displayed proudly alongside its peers? It didn't make any sense –

Jean turned the book around and nearly dropped it when he read the title.

 _Newest Advancements in Biomedical Science: Treatments for Spinal Cord Injury (SCI)._

He felt his throat constrict, and his breath catch – and _shit_ he couldn't breathe.

Setting down the book, he picked up the next one: _A Full Encyclopaedia on the Theory of Human Anatomy and Physiology._

Dropping it, his hands ran frantically over the leather-bound covers, the dry pages flickering as his eyes swept over the various titles: _A Study of the Human Body: The Central and Peripheral Nervous Systems, Biomedical Alchemy and Its Applications, The Brain and Spinal Cord: An Advanced Introduction, Alchemy and Medicine: Further Studies._

There were other titles too, others from helping another subordinate for years past: _The Red Stone – Myth or Science?, The Mystery of the Philosopher's Stone, Magnum Opus: Alchemy and the Quest for the Mythical Stone, The Tainted History of Human Transmutation._

Hidden from sight and mind.

Havoc stared at the scattered books, spread around him like dusty angel's wings – and the realization hit him so hard he staggered with the sheer force of it.

 _He can't know I know._

As frantically as he had perused the titles, Jean haphazardly piled the books back into their prison.

The door creaked open just as Jean stuffed in the last book and slammed the cupboard shut. "Who's there?"

Jean swivelled around, nerves frayed, and his eyes widened when he recognized the familiar silhouette standing in the doorway, one hand still poised on the handle.

He hastily jumped to his feet and snapped his shoes together as he saluted shakily. "Colonel Mustang, sir!"

Mustang visibly relaxed. "Havoc, what the heck are you doing in my office?"

"Oh." Havoc felt his eyes travel unwillingly towards the incriminating cupboard full of secrets. "Some people from accounting claimed that we haven't footed the bill on one of the Boss's old damage reports. I'm here looking for it."

Mustang cocked an eyebrow in very much the same way he had that night at the bar as he closed the door behind him. "They dare challenge Hawkeye's organization skills? Do they have a death wish?"

Havoc shrugged as his tense shoulders slackened ever so slightly. "Some people are just that stupid."

The colonel shook his head. "Right office, wrong section." he pointed in the general direction of a metal file cabinet sitting against the opposite wall. "All of Fullmetal's damage reports are in there."

Havoc felt his jaw drop. "The _whole_ cabinet?"

Mustang shrugged nonchalantly, and the smile on his lips was completely innocent. " _Maybe_ some of them are mine."

Havoc chuckled appreciatively as Mustang carefully crossed the floor towards his desk, holding an arm out and stopping when his fingers brushed the polished wooden edge.

Jean watched the colonel out of the corner of his eye as he flicked through the reports organized neatly by year. Mustang had a book under one arm, and he flipped it open now, fingers sliding across the page as he propped his chin up on his free hand.

Jean stared at the empty book – empty of words he knew, but not of meaning. It was some relatively new alphabetical system consisting of various raised dots and bumps specifically invented for the blind and visually impaired, and Mustang had taken to learning it as, in his own words: He was sick of others reading so _slowly_ to him and relearning an entire writing system from scratch was probably just _that_ much faster.

Jean found the file which he had been looking for – the one from Ed's trip to Liore – and closed the cabinet with a metallic _clang!_

He turned the old document in his fingers for a moment, silently regarding his colonel as Mustang pursed his lips and sighed in something akin to boredom. He'd never thought he would live to see the day his superior, so notoriously known for his great powers of procrastination, _wouldn't_ enjoy slacking off on paperwork. Nowadays, the official documents which filtered through the colonel's office were shared by Hawkeye, Havoc and occasionally Breda, with only a select few specifically requiring a high-ranking military officer's approval being signed by Mustang.

"Did you need anything else, lieutenant?" Mustang's uninterested voice snapped Havoc out of his reverie.

Jean swallowed down the lump in his throat and saluted. "Nope, I'm good. Thanks for the assist, Chief."

Havoc closed the double doors softly behind him and resisted the urge to slump against them. The four other occupants of the outer office turned at the sound to look at him, and conversation instantly ceased.

He scowled hostilely in the prevailing silence, tapping his burnt out cigarette against his upper thigh. " _What?_ "

Falman and Fuery averted their eyes. Breda shot him a pained look. But it was Hawkeye who rose quietly from her desk and made her way towards him.

Jean instinctively flinched when Hawkeye reached out a hand, but blinked instead when he saw the object she held in between her fingers.

A handkerchief.

Hawkeye nodded briskly at him, once, and while she didn't say a word, her eyes conveyed more than mere sounds ever could.

Havoc dropped his cigarette and let his hand fly to his cheeks.

They were moist, and not from the rain.

* * *

Over the years of working with the Flame Alchemist, and then later on, the Fullmetal Alchemist, it seemed to Lieutenant Jean Havoc that the team had ultimately developed an uncanny instinct for telling which subjects were ' _approachable_ ' and ' _inapproachable_ '.

For example, Ishval was obviously a topic not to be broached upon when the colonel was in the room, and the words 'human transmutation' were basically taboo when it came to the Elrics.

Then there were the smaller, less obvious topics which had been red-taped and hung with multiple _WARNING_ signs as well – like that one time Fuery uncovered the colonel's secret stash of peppermint sweets by accident, and had been met with a half-embarrassed, half-enraged Mustang whose shouting had scared Fuery so badly he hid in the janitor's closet for an hour. Of course, till this day, Mustang still blatantly _refused_ to admit he had a bit of a sweet-tooth.

Or that one time a passing general had casually commented to Ed that the colonel should be proud to have such a talented 'son' – which had predictably resulted in a whole lot of cursing and ranting about how _that_ impression was even _possible_ in the first place, considering how different they were! The bizarre episode eventually led to a long awkward stage in their relationship, and Mustang was still utterly confused as to why Edward resolutely avoided him for about a month seemingly out of nowhere.

So when the colonel stumbled into the lobby that morning, still slightly hung-over and with a mysterious discoloration blotching the side of his face; and when Ed and Al emerged soon after, Edward seeming to be in a ridiculously good mood as he hopped down the stairs, heavy automail clanking – the four men already gathered in the waiting area silently surveyed the situation, and wisely decided that _this_ particular subject was classified under 'inapproachable'. None of them mentioned that Fuery had spotted Ed exiting his hotel room early that morning, a mop in one hand and a bucket of murky white water in another.

Suspicious – but not that Havoc really wanted to know what the hell happened last night.

The day progressed in a rather unremarkable way, and to Havoc's surprise, Ed and Al had been invited to join the Ishvalan proceedings – the discussion today being primarily focused on future trade routes and the rebuilding of the Ishvalan economy. Obviously the Grand Cleric, who definitely had not forgotten about the previous day's fiasco, voiced his disapproval at having the two young boys in the room, but after Edward's surprisingly sincere apology, Mustang managed to smooth his feathers with a few diplomatic words and some strategic manoeuvring.

This time, Havoc had been required to stand guard inside the tent, but the torture at not being able to light a cigarette was all but made up for by Edward. The Fullmetal Alchemist wholly demonstrated his worth, sometimes by contributing a few clever pointers regarding the suitability of Ishvalan soil for the planting of barley, but mostly by glaring at Brigadier General Rourke every time he seemed to be on the verge of uttering some demoralizing comment regarding Mustang until he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

It was rather entertaining for Havoc to watch the ever so confident Rourke being cowed under the fierce golden eyes of a teenage boy several inches shorter than him. But Rourke wasn't stupid, and having arrived at Sersa with little more than a chauffeur who doubled as a manservant – he was quite truly outnumbered, outgunned and out-alchemized.

The meeting ended, thankfully without any further shouting matches, and after bidding farewell to Major Miles and Scar, Havoc, Hawkeye, Mustang and the Elric brothers bundled into their car and drove to town – it being decided that Breda, Falman and Fuery would return to the hotel beforehand.

Havoc was at the wheel with Hawkeye in the front passenger seat, and he stuck his head out of the window, leaving a whimsical trial of cigarette smoke in his wake as the car slowed down at a pedestrian crossing. He squinted at the overcast sky and sniffed the air. "Looks like it's going to rain, Chief."

Mustang frowned in the backseat next to the Elrics, unconvinced. "The radio reported clear skies for the rest of the week."

Havoc snorted derisively as he wound up the window and pressed his foot to the gas pedal. "Chief, do you trust my country-lad intuition, or those swindlers who call themselves weather forecasters?"

Havoc meant it to be a rhetorical question, but Mustang simply raised an eyebrow. " _Really_ now, Lieutenant Havoc?"

It was a Sunday, and the streets were packed with cars and people as they neared the Shopping District. The deceptively small town of Sersa had a bursting population – and the sniper swore that every single last one of them were out of their homes this afternoon. Havoc scowled and mercilessly slammed down on the horn, but no one budged save for a few young Sersans who paused to give him the finger.

"Pull over." ordered the colonel. "We'll walk the rest of the way."

Hawkeye immediately swivelled around to eye Mustang disapprovingly. " _Walk_ , sir? You'll be very exposed in a large crowd like this."

Mustang shrugged and tapped the window absentmindedly. "Only I can confirm if they sent the right package. Besides, what's the worst that can happen in ten minutes?"

Hawkeye furrowed her eyebrows, before a sudden smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Only if you'll use your cane, sir."

Mustang's customary nonchalant expression morphed in one of utmost horror. "But _lieutenant_ –"

"You're not out of hot water over last night's events yet, Colonel Mustang," stated Hawkeye evenly, but her amber eyes glimmered vernally in the sunlight filtering through the clear windscreen. Havoc once again found himself wondering what exactly had happened the previous night, and if it had anything to do with the bottle of whiskey the colonel had basically mugged him of. "So I'd suggest you follow my advice, _sir_."

Mustang instantly shut up and gloomily went back to tapping a slow rhythm on the windowpane, Ed snickering from the other side of the car while Al shushed him.

Havoc yanked the steering wheel around without warning, sending the car's occupants reeling to one side as he smoothly swerved into an empty parking lot.

Throwing up the handbrake, Havoc turned around to grin at his passengers. "This is as close as I can get to the post office without double-parking."

Edward looked like he wanted to burst out in a barrage of insults regarding Havoc's parallel parking skills, but Mustang, who was used to the second lieutenant's erratic driving – really, sometimes he wondered why he trusted the man with his life – coolly opened his car door and stepped out.

Edward had to slap a hand over his mouth to stifle the sudden urge to giggle as the colonel was promptly apprehended by Hawkeye before he could even think of sneaking off by himself. A long, slender aluminum rod tipped with rubber was produced from the car and handed to him. It was coated with a fresh layer of white paint which clearly hadn't seen much usage since being introduced, and Mustang tapped its rubber end against the side of the pavement with pensive reluctance – obviously he wasn't all that keen on advertising his blindness to the world, but Hawkeye still made him use the damn thing in crowded public areas.

Ed grinned madly. "You look ridiculous."

With surprising accuracy, Mustang flicked his wrist and sent the hard edge of the cane flying into Edward's flesh leg.

Ed yelped in pain as metal rapped smartly against sensitive skin.

"Careful, Fullmetal." drawled Mustang. "I'm armed and dangerous."

Alphonse had to restrain his brother with a laugh before the whole scene could dissolve into a full-out brawl on the sidewalk.

As the small group made their way down the busy street, Mustang commented sulkily to Havoc that, as of late, Hawkeye was being much harder on him than usual.

Havoc chuckled as he fell into step with his superior, Mustang pushing his cane along the rough gravel footpath unenthusiastically. "She's probably just grouchy that she had to leave Black Hayate behind with Gracia. A week of nonstop feeding and Elicia-cuddling can't be good for his discipline."

A meaningful cough from directly behind them startled the two men into silence.

"Excuse me –"

The little girl dressed in red appeared out of nowhere.

Mustang couldn't react fast enough to avoid her, and girl and colonel ended up crashing into each other.

Havoc instinctively started forward to help Mustang up, who was sitting on the ground and scowling at his own clumsiness. "I told you this thing was useless." he admonished haughtily, referring to the cane he'd left lying on the floor.

Alphonse was next to the little girl, talking in soft, reassuring tones as he examined her for scrapes. Havoc moved over to regard her curiously – she was a dainty and frail-looking little thing, her hair and most of her features obscured by the faded crimson hood she had pulled down over her face. It was impossible to tell how old she was, being completely swathed in her thick red cloak despite the sultry afternoon. "Hey, are you okay? Did you get separated from your parents?"

The girl didn't look up. Instead, she remained crouched low on the ground, hands scrabbling as she searched the rough pavement. "My apples…Where…"

It was then that Havoc noticed the empty hand-woven basket sitting lopsided in her lap. Something round bumped against the toe of his shoe, and he picked up the apple – ripened to a brilliant rosy sheen which shone like rubies in the sun – before depositing it in the girl's basket.

Ed and Al, having picked up on the situation, hunted quickly around for more of the fallen apples and rescuing those which hadn't been trampled and broken by the stamping feet of the milling pedestrians.

All that was visible of the girl underneath her heavy cloak, save for her tanned hands, was the white-toothed smile she directed at the Elrics. "Thank you, big brothers."

Edward instantly flushed so red that he looked like a golden-haired tomato. Al smiled back and patted the top of the girl's hood, puffing out his chest a little at being called 'big brother' (he rather missed the days of being constantly mistaken as the older of the Elrics).

The girl stood up a little straighter, as if suddenly remembering some grand purpose which she had been entrusted with, and whirled around.

She strode timidly up to the colonel, who blinked when the rough rattan strips bumped against his hand as the girl held the basket high over her head towards him. "Would an apple please you today, good sir? Only a hundred cenz for the best apples in Sersa." she asked shyly.

Mustang raised an eyebrow and dropped to one knee so that he was roughly at eye level with the girl. Slowly reaching out a hand, he plucked one of the rosy orbs from her basket, rubbing its smooth, unblemished surface with his thumb. "How much for the whole basket?"

The girl started and stared at her worn leather boots. "Oh sir, you couldn't possibly…"

Mustang stood up and gestured to Hawkeye, who immediately reached into her pocket and pulled out a five thousand cenz note. The lieutenant smiled warmly as she placed it in the girl's small hands.

The apple-vendor girl gawked at single paper bill as if she had never before in her entire young life, had borne witness to such a large amount of money all in one place. She curtsied hurriedly, skirts and cloak fluttering, and rewarded the colonel with such a brilliant, unchained smile that Havoc thought with resigned sullenness it was a pity Mustang didn't get to see it.

Eagerly leaving her basket of apples under Hawkeye's new ownership, their group stood amongst the throng of window-shopping townspeople and watched in a bewildered daze as the girl skipped cheerfully down the street and eventually disappeared into the crowd.

Hawkeye studied her commanding officer's back with a critical look, but her eyes were less reproachful and more amused.

Mustang, who had apparently developed a sixth sense for detecting his lieutenant's wordless gaze on him, cocked his head towards her as he took a contemplating bite out of his apple. "What? I was hungry."

Havoc secretly knew that to be untrue.

The Sersan post office – a small, dingy establishment almost dwarfed by the sparkling jewellery store and the loud grocery shop it neighboured – took many minutes of pushing and shouldering through the rest of the crowd to get to.

As it was a Sunday, the shadowy interior was quite empty in perfect juxtaposition to the busy street it faced. The brothers opted to wait outside while Mustang went in to retrieve that package from Central he was so eager to get his hands on. Al inched out from underneath the bright blue awning attached to the front of the post office, and blinked as a drop of moisture landed on his cheek.

He wiped it off his face and stared at his hand incredulously. "Brother, I think it's going to –"

Before Al could even finish his sentence, the soft _pings_ of the occasional raindrop swiftly merged into the more incessant _pitter-patter_ of a light shower, which didn't take long to turn into an all out downpour.

There were shrieks and curses as the crowd on the streets instantly dispersed. Sersa was apparently renowned for its unpredictable weather, and many of the pedestrians had umbrellas already held at the ready. The grey streets seemed to bloom with a hundred flowers as the umbrellas were promptly opened and put to use, a kaleidoscope gathering of every colour of the rainbow condensing into those circular shapes of waterproof nylon.

Alphonse stared up at the weeping sky in awe, cupping his hands out in front of him to catch the rapidly falling droplets in his arched fingers. The amazing sensations of the world – the coldness of snow, the wetness of rain, the gentle brush of grass against tender skin – they still never ceased to amaze him. "Remember what mother used to tell us, brother? That it would rain because the angels were sad that we were naughty, and as punishment we were forced to stay indoors?"

Edward smiled dreamily as he examined the falling rain. A flash of lightning streaked across the monochromic canvas like a white dragon, briefly illuminating his young face. "Yes Al, I remember."

"If you ever believed that story, Fullmetal, you're dumber than I thought," commented Mustang casually from behind the brothers as he re-emerged from the post office, Havoc struggling with a large cardboard box wrapped in waterproof paper. "Rain is liquid water in the form of droplets that have condensed from atmospheric water vapour and then precipitated—that is, become heavy enough to fall under gravity. Even preschoolers know that."

Ed glowered at the colonel as Mustang reached out a hand, only to quickly extract it back into the relative safety of the awning with a hiss as if rain could burn like fire. "Way to ruin a cozy atmosphere, Colonel Bastard. Have you ever had a childhood?"

Mustang shrugged. "So now what? Do we wait the rain out?"

Edward nudged Al and grinned conspiratorially at his younger brother. The Elrics tapped their feet _one two three_ in perfect tandem, then simultaneously burst into song:

" _Raindrops keep fallin' on my head,_

 _And just like the guy who's just so useless in the rain,_

 _Nothin' seems to work,_

 _Those_

 _Raindrops keep fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'…_ "

Mustang groaned and covered his ears. "I swear, when I'm Fuhrer, the first thing I'm going to do is put out a nationwide ban on that _awful_ song. I swear it's been following me around since its release last week." he paused. "And damn it Fullmetal, those aren't the actual lyrics!"

Havoc widened his eyes in mock horror. "But sir, you can't ban B.J. Thomas! What would all his fans say?"

Hawkeye held a hand discreetly over her mouth to hide a rapidly broadening smile. "Lieutenant Havoc," she said, her voice telling of lost days of laughter and sunshine. "Would you mind getting the car? I'm sure the colonel would hate for his precious delivery to get wet. The post office will probably have an extra umbrella."

Havoc set down the heavy box and shook his head. "Nah, I'm not afraid of a bit of rain."

Unbuttoning his jacket and draping it over his head, he winked at Hawkeye's cocked eyebrow at such barefaced mistreatment of an official military uniform before sprinting out into the downpour, the surprisingly melodious singing of the Elrics and Mustang's loud complaining fading quickly into the distant thrumming of rain and the splashing of his boots against the slick stone pavement.

The street was mostly empty save for the impressive obstacle course of silvery puddles created by the sudden storm, and Havoc, soaking wet and sodden through, fumbled for his keys as he skittered to a stop next to their military-issued car. He had nearly missed it, in this blurred alternate universe of faded black and white, where everything seemed to merge into one another, and the concept of 'colour' seemed a wholly unreachable one.

The sound of heavy footsteps and its succeeding wet splatters as somebody's shoes hit a shallow film of pooled water every so often punctuated the pattering harmony, but Havoc ignored them, squinting as he tried to insert his keys into the car door, cool metal slipping in between wet fingers.

Then an urgent hand came down on his shoulder, and Havoc startled, dropping the keys and hearing them clatter on damp gravel as he whirled around, reflexively going for the gun on his belt holster.

He came face to face with a pair of wide ruby eyes, and jerked back in surprise, gun held point down towards the ground. "Wha –"

"You're –" the Ishvalan man who had approached Havoc flailed his arms weakly and nearly folded over with exertion, panting heavily. He was dressed in a respectable-looking trench coat and dress pants, both articles of clothing now thoroughly drenched, sopping strings of snow white hair shining like a beacon in this grey world of rain and thunder. When he looked up, his eyes were wild and frantic, lips moving incoherently against a salt-and-pepper beard. "You're…one of Colonel Mustang's…men?"

Havoc furrowed his eyebrows, the fact that both men were standing in the relentlessly pouring rain and letting themselves get absolutely saturated with water the last thing on his mind. He was still disorientated at seeing an Ishvalan in town – sure, he knew that some of them lived discreetly in the more comfortable rooms in the heart of Sersa, but none of them would be _that_ blatant as to approach a military officer.

"It's –" The mystery man took a shallow breath and planted both of his hands on Havoc's shoulders, shaking him urgently. "It's a _set-up!_ "

Havoc frowned in utmost confusion for a moment before his blue eyes dawned with terrible realization.

He swivelled around, gaze searching the rain for the familiar black-and-blue form which was the colonel, and the lighter bursts of colour which were the Elric brothers.

Spotting them still standing under the brilliant blue awning, Havoc's sniper intuition kicked in and his eyes were directed almost automatically towards the taller building directly opposite the post office.

He would be forever grateful, that despite it being a thoroughly drenched day, the sun was still adamant enough to cast its watery rays upon this changed world.

The telltale metallic flash of a gun's barrel was all Havoc needed to glimpse before he broke into a full sprint back towards the post office.

" _GET DOWN!_ " he bellowed.

And the world exploded in a hail of gunfire.

* * *

If there was one thing Alphonse Elric needed to get used to, it was that when someone yelled 'get down!', he actually needed to _get down_.

Habit born of an empty metal body caused him to automatically step in front of his older brother, arms circled around him defensively, back directed to what he figured was the source of the threat.

"Al!" cried Edward, shoulder-tackling his brother to the ground.

Al lost his footing due to his brother's entire body weight slamming into him, and they both ended up on the slick gravel footpath, Ed half-draped over the younger Elric.

 _CRASH!_ The glass doors of the post office behind them burst in a shower of twinkling shards – falling stardust, carpeting the sidewalk like deadly snow.

Al stared at the broken glass in horror, then frantically scanned his eyes rightwards of their position. "Colonel! Lieutenant!"

Mustang was on the ground, Hawkeye having tackled him in much the same way that Al had been tackled by Ed. The fair-haired lieutenant was crouched low, one hand placed protectively on her superior's shoulder while the other held her handgun at the ready.

Apparently gunfire was no foreign sound to the colonel's ears, and he grasped the general situation even quicker than Alphonse.

Slamming his palms together in a manner which was so familiar to Al that it was rather disorientating to see it being adopted by someone other than a certain golden-haired boy with a metal arm, Mustang touched his hands to the ground.

Blue light flashed and crackled like raw lightning, and a four meter high earthen wall sprang up from the sidewalk, gravel and mud merging and compacting as particles of matter reacted to the transmutation.

"Alphonse!" he called out, and Al immediately understood.

Touching his palms together as well, Al made an exact copy Mustang's earth barricade, stretching out his transmutation so that his wall was connected to the one initially transmuted by the colonel.

Unfortunately, neither alchemist had taken the thin awning over their heads into consideration, and their transmutations promptly tore through the zinc sheets.

The accumulated rain crashed down through the large gap, instantly drenching the four of them. In less a second, their world had been reduced to grey water.

Al tried to shield his face from the downpour with one arm as he and Edward quickly scooted over to join Mustang.

"What the hell is going on?" shouted Ed, raising his voice to be heard over the insistent thrumming of rain. His sodden braid now seemed permanently welded to the back of his red coat, and golden strands of hair were plastered wetly to the sides of his cheeks.

His voice was abruptly cut off by another quick-fire series of successive explosions, followed by the numerous wet _thwack_ s of bullets against their makeshift shield.

Mustang winced and raised an eyebrow witheringly, rivulets of water streaming down his rain-flattened hair and pale face. "It isn't _obvious_ enough to you, Fullmetal?"

"Sheesh! Is now really the time for sarcasm, bastard?" Edward returned indignantly, only to be interrupted by the urgent pattering of feet on wet stone.

He turned around, and had to blink the rain out of his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

Havoc was now clad in nothing but a white T-shirt and military pants, his jacket and the cigarette he had been smoking nowhere to be seen. He dove like a baseball star into the relative safety of their alchemized defence, then turned to gesture frenziedly at the humanoid figure behind him.

Ed felt his jaw hit the ground. He was soaking wet and dishevelled, but Edward, having met only a limited amount of Ishvalans throughout the years, recognized the older man instantly. " _Dr. Blake?_ "

"What about Dr. Blake?" asked Mustang irritably.

Instead of responding to Mustang's question, Edward shouted at the half-Ishvalan doctor whom they had met on the train in amazement: "What are _you_ doing here?"

Dr. Leonardo Blake meekly raised a hand in way of greeting.

"Wait, he's _here?_ "

"You two _know_ this guy?" Havoc's voice joined in the cacophony.

Al glanced from his brother to Mustang in confusion. "What – who?"

Their dialogue was broken up by yet another hail of bullets hitting their shelter. Apparently the gunmen hadn't given up just yet.

"Sir." voiced Hawkeye calmly, slender fingers wrapped professionally around her handgun as she poised it in midair, ready to swivel it around at the slightest indication that their assailants were about to take this fight to close-quarters. "Perhaps it would be better to continue this discussion later."

Mustang pursed his lips and nodded gravely. "Agreed, lieutenant." He paused for a moment, and Al could see his eyebrows constrict ever so slightly, spiderweb-thin thought lines spreading across his forehead.

The gunfire had ceased for the moment, and the deafening sound of rain on concrete drowned out the silence. The unknown attackers were either reloading their magazines or forming a more effectual plan of attack.

"Dr. Blake," finally, the colonel spoke. "While I'm still unsure regarding your presence here, this area is unsafe and I recommend you take shelter in the establishment behind us." Mustang gestured to the post office at their backs to cement his point.

Dr. Blake frowned at the younger man. "But I –"

"You've never had military training, doctor, and I'm really not that eager to put a civilian at unnecessary risk." Mustang nodded to Havoc. "Lieutenant Havoc, would you please escort him inside?"

"Yes sir!" Havoc saluted and took the arm of the still-protesting doctor.

As Havoc and the Ishvalan disappeared into the shadows of the building, Mustang turned to face the Elric brothers, his eyes blank but still full of purpose. "You two should probably follow."

Edward snorted loudly in teenage indignation. "No. Frickin'. Way."

Al had to hide a smile at Ed's brashness. "What brother said. Minus the swearing."

Mustang sighed in resignation, clearly having expected this exact response. "Hawkeye, do you have eyes on the enemy?"

Hawkeye nodded and edged out carefully beyond the wall of gravel, her eyes scanning the rooftops with professional sniper precision. "I count at least two men handling a light machine gun each. There may be a third out of sight. Make and model of weaponry unknown – minimum visibility due to the rain." she cocked her gun as her agile mind accessed possibilities of sniping. "I may be able to take both of them out if I had my rifle."

"Unfortunately, we're currently a bit short on assault rifles, lieutenant," said Mustang dryly. "Perhaps a flank attack from the building itself would be a better idea."

"Not if they can see us coming," replied Hawkeye. "While visibility may be low in this downpour, it is unlikely that they won't spot us entering the building. It would be stupid for them to not post a lookout."

A familiar smirk graced the colonel's features. "What if Al and I provided you with a distraction?"

Hawkeye considered this plan thoughtfully. "Chances of success would definitely increase."

"Okay, take Havoc with you as backup." Mustang tapped his fingers meditatively on his lap. "I would usually get Breda and Falman to evacuate the area, but I gather the rain has already done that job for me."

"Not a soul on the street." confirmed Ed. "No one would be crazy enough to be walking around in _this_ hurricane."

"Good. Havoc?" called Mustang, causing the newly returned lieutenant to snap to attention. Really, Havoc swore the colonel had some sort of telepathic sixth sense. "Could I borrow your lighter?"

Havoc grinned widely and dug around in his pocket, tossing a gleaming metal object towards Edward, who caught it neatly in his palm. "Looks like you'll be directing on this one, Boss."

Edward furrowed his eyebrows. " _Directing?_ "

"Perhaps that was a slightly inaccurate expression," said Havoc apologetically, nodding in Hawkeye's direction and heading over to join her, his own revolver held casually in both hands. "Just tell him where the baddies are!"

"Yes, Fullmetal, exactly what he said." Mustang shook his head in mock ruefulness. "Though I would have put it in less…crude terms."

"Uh…Al, do you mind?" said Edward.

Instantly understanding, Al moved forward, clapping and pushing his hands to the earthen barrier. With a crackle of light and energy, the compacted earth loosened and swirled, creating a tiny viewing hole for Ed.

The Fullmetal Alchemist pressed his eye to the hole, squinting to make out the building opposite the wide asphalt road. It was nigh impossible to see anything with water running down his face and making him blink, but there were definitely two dark, vaguely humanoid figures perched low on the rooftop.

"They're ten meters – no, eleven meters north of our position," said Edward slowly. "The building itself has three stories, which makes it roughly nine meters tall, and the snipers are right on top of it."

Mustang had shut his eyes, miniature streams of rainwater curving down the sharp edges of his face, creased in concentration. "Ten meters…" he murmured, visualizing the scene, before holding out one hand expectantly.

Edward pressed Havoc's lighter into his open palm.

Mustang slowly put his palms together and clicked the lighter. It snapped open, metal sparking against flint.

A ribbon of fire blossomed outwards from the point of ignition, arcing defiantly towards the weeping heavens. Al watched, entranced, as the crackle of flames expanded and blossomed, exploding above the building in a magnificent shower of sparks and fiery rain, sweeping low and singeing the top of the men's heads almost playfully – how he was reminded then, of why flame alchemy was regarded as one of the most powerful forms of alchemy to ever be mastered by mortal man, in this symphony of water and fire which would have been impossible otherwise.

Several shouts of surprise and terror resonated down through the pounding rain, orders were barked, and the barrage of bullets began anew.

Hawkeye gestured to Havoc, and the two lieutenants discreetly slipped out from behind their wall, swerving widely to avoid the gunfire as they sprinted across the road.

"You missed." commented Edward flatly, but his eyes were glimmering and there was a lopsided grin on his face. "Besides, I thought your flames were flashier than that."

Mustang scowled and snapped the lighter shut again. "The point _is_ to miss them, Fullmetal. And do you know how difficult it is to light a fire in pouring rain?"

Edward shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Whatever. If I still had my alchemy, those wannabe thugs would have been rolling on the ground and screaming for mercy ten minutes ago."

A smile tugged at the corners of the colonel's lips. "But seeing as you don't _have_ alchemy, you'd best refrain from such reckless behaviour."

Not waiting for a snide response from Ed, Mustang coolly clapped his hands and dispatched another flurry of bright flames towards their attackers, sending them scurrying away from their weapons. Al, figuring that he'd better make himself useful, transmuted a stone fist from the remnants of their wall. It stretched across the length of the road and crushed the two machine guns sitting at the very edge of the roof.

There were more shouts of alarm, and Ed gave his brother a high five.

"Did Hawkeye and Havoc make it in?" inquired the colonel anxiously.

"Damn, I can't see anything," said Edward, pressing one eye to the peep hole once again. "No wait, I think I see her. They've taken the gunmen by surprise."

A few distant gunshots, impossibly clear and concise, rang through the air.

Mustang relaxed. "Then we have nothing to worry about."

Alphonse studied the completely drenched colonel with something like relief encompassing his chest – knowing that yes, he'd kept his promise. Yes, Al had managed to keep him in one piece.

And then a dark thought intruded upon his consciousness, an uninvited visitor, hissing and slithering in between the gaps of his mind like a black cobra:

 _But for how long?_

* * *

It was hours later before First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye finally pushed through the revolving glass doors of the hotel, wholly irritated, soaking wet, and thoroughly exhausted.

Lieutenant Havoc walked in directly after her, mumbling and cursing as he shook the crappy plastic lighter he had purchased at the cheap grocery store across the street. But despite his best efforts to light his cigarette, it produced barely a flicker.

If the colonel was planning to make it a point to ruin all of his best lighters by getting them wet, Havoc expected Mustang to either humour him as his personal human cigarette-lighter, or reimburse him with a free lunch.

Breda met them halfway across the lobby, draping a thick, dry towel over Hawkeye's shoulders and tossing another at Havoc's head.

"Any luck?" asked the red-head, crossing his arms. He seemed perfectly calm, save for the rapid tapping of one foot as he fidgeted in place.

Riza shook her head, rubbing her eyes and already longing for the hot bath waiting for her upstairs. "We lost them an hour ago. Curse this rain – all their tracks were washed away."

What irked her the most was that they were so _close_.

With the colonel's flames causing mayhem above, Hawkeye and Havoc had managed to sneak into the building and onto the roof largely unnoticed, flanking the enemy snipers and blocking their only pathway of escape.

There were three of them – masked gunmen, their faces wrapped with cloth, drenched, singed and unarmed (thanks to Alphonse). Riza had raised her gun, steady and unwavering, and called out that they would not be harmed if they cooperated.

The first of the men, their leader – Riza could almost feel the hatred of the gaze behind the shadows of his mask. His hand twitched, and she caught a flash of brown skin.

It wasn't evidence enough to prove her suspicions, but she'd bet Black Hayate and her favourite IMI Desert Eagle that these people who had attacked her colonel were Ishvalans.

In retrospect, it should have been easy for the two lieutenants, working in tandem, to apprehend them. They clearly knew that they'd been backed into a corner.

Out of nowhere, the three masked assailants sprinted to the side, leaping off the roof.

"Oi!" Havoc had shouted, while Riza narrowed her eyes and fired off several rounds.

Her bullets hit, but did not manage to wound any of them mortally.

The two blondes had rushed over to the side of the roof, guns still held at the ready, only to see all three men land in a cleverly positioned dumpster three stories below, effectively breaking their fall.

A fourth accomplice and an unidentifiable car with no license plate were waiting for them in the side alley, and they made their escape in a screech of tyres against wet tarmac.

"Crap!" swore Havoc as they watched the car speed off through the rain.

"Let's go," ordered Hawkeye. "We can still follow their tracks."

And for the next two hours they did just that, having contacted Breda at the hotel to send someone to pick up Mustang and the Elrics. And to Riza's annoyance, their long search in the heavy rain had amounted to exactly nothing.

"Falman and Fuery?" asked Havoc, scowling darkly as he clicked his lighter multiple times. Rip-off.

"Falman went to speak to the local authorities – as if _they_ would help. Fuery has disappeared off somewhere – something about getting a better signal to contact East Command. We'll know more when they get back." answered Breda, his shoes clicking against the smooth floor as he walked, while Havoc and Hawkeye were basically trailing water.

Riza's next question was already on the edge of her tongue when the answer to that exact question made her freeze in her tracks.

She took in the sight before her – of Colonel Roy Mustang and the Elrics seated in the waiting area as Mustang and Edward argued intensely over the coffee table. They were all swathed in towels, but had not moved to do anything more than that, not even changing into a set of dry clothes.

Riza twirled on her heel and moved in on Breda, amber eyes flashing dangerously. "Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda, I _explicitly_ remember telling you to make sure Colonel Mustang got a change of clothes _and_ dinner."

Breda raised both hands defensively, shrinking away from Hawkeye's sudden wrath. "He _insisted_ on waiting for you here! What do you expect me to do?"

Riza stopped in midstride, hands falling from her hips. She sighed. "I'll see you two in the morning."

Breda and Havoc were left exchanging looks and shrugs as Riza strode over to the colonel, her footsteps much more restrained and drained than they were this morning. She rubbed at her soggy hair with the towel, the few heated sentences being exchanged between the two alchemists drifting to her ears.

"Pawn C5 to C6!" announced Edward triumphantly.

"That's not even a valid move. My Rook is on C6."

"How do I know you're not making this up as you go along!?"

"Maybe _you_ just don't have the sufficient visualization skills to play Blindfold chess." shot back Mustang smugly.

"My visualization skills are just _fine_ , Colonel Bastard!"

"Brother, play nice."

Hawkeye paused in her advance as a fourth newcomer approached the trio. She eyed the Ishvalan man guardedly – Mustang had called him 'Dr. Leonardo Blake', and despite Havoc's claims that he had initially alerted them to the attack, Hawkeye still wasn't all that sure about the sudden appearance of the enigmatic doctor.

"Dr. Blake!" Edward tore himself away from the gruelling match of mental chess he had challenged the colonel to, golden eyes alight.

"Mr. Elric, Colonel Mustang," greeted the man cheerfully. "I was just on my way out to dinner."

"Dinner?" Ed raised an eyebrow in grudging respect. "You just survived a gunfight and you're going out for _dinner?_ You must have nerves of steel, doctor."

"Oh no, I wouldn't say that. I wasn't even in harm's way at all – though I wished I could have done more. But my place is in the sickroom, not on the battlefield." Blake nonchalantly shrugged one shoulder. "To be honest, I was rather surprised to learn that you were staying at this hotel as well."

Ed grinned broadly. "Crazy coincidence."

"Indeed." replied the doctor, turning to Mustang. "Colonel, would tomorrow afternoon be fine for our appointment? I'll be returning from the volunteer clinic at four."

"Four is perfect, Dr. Blake." said the colonel, all courteous graces. "We might even treat you to dinner, doctor – to thank you for today."

"Doctor, if you don't mind my asking." voiced Al inquisitively. "How did you know there was going to be an attack?"

"Ah…Now that's a long story which I would hate to delay you with." Blake winked conspiratorially. "But I'll be happy to relate it…over dinner, I mean."

Mustang cocked an eyebrow. "Dinner it is."

Leonardo Blake tipped his felt hat and smiled. "Have a good day then, gentlemen."

Hawkeye watched him go, past the revolving doors and onto the rapidly darkening street. The rain had lightened since the past half-hour, and the doctor paused at the doorway to open an umbrella before disappearing from sight.

Shaking her head to herself, she walked right up to Mustang and cleared her throat.

The colonel turned his head, dark hair still damp from the rain. "Oh, you're back, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Riza pursed her lips in exasperation. "Sir, why aren't you in your room?"

"Because, well…" he paused and frowned, unable to come up with a decent excuse. "Because Fullmetal challenged me to a game of Blindfold chess?"

"Stop using me as an excuse for everything." grumbled Edward, a snow white towel draped over his forehead as he leaned back against the couch.

"Colonel," she admonished. "What if you got sick?"

"I'm perfectly –" The effect was completely ruined though when Mustang sneezed grandly into his hand.

"Fine." he ended miserably.

Hawkeye rubbed her forehead, fighting the smile which threatened to snag at the corners of her lips. _Why do you always have to be so stubborn?_

"Let's get you some dry clothes, sir."

* * *

Edward Elric woke to brightness.

He blinked rapidly, disorientated, before slowly detaching his face from the intricate embroidery of the carpet. He stared blearily at the alchemy book lying limply on the floor – had he fallen asleep while reading again?

He raised his eyes, locating the source of the light which had disrupted his slumber – thin spools of it shone through the crack underneath the door separating the two suites like liquid gold.

Edward frowned, as he distinctly remembered being _on_ the couch when he passed out, and decided with a shrug that he'd probably rolled off the cushions and onto the floor at some point, where the thin pool of pale brilliance could spill over his face.

Pulling his golden hair up into a casual ponytail, Ed tiptoed to the door, turned the knob, and peered inside.

The room was completely silent, save for the ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the soft rustle of new paper.

Edward had to squint against the dim light of the tungsten bulb swinging hypnotically from the ceiling of the kitchen. Seated at the oak dining table was a pallid shadow, all dark hair and white garments, his back turned to Edward.

Ed slipped silently through the door and glanced up at the clock, whose hour hand was quickly approaching two. "Colonel?"

The half-slumped silhouette jerked upright almost guiltily, and Edward moved in closer as Mustang turned around, a hand held against his mouth. "Fullmetal?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

Ed frowned suspiciously. "It's _two in the morning._ "

"Mm, is it?" commented the colonel indifferently, turning back to the table.

Edward dragged out a chair and took a seat opposite Mustang, regarding the scene before him with raised eyebrows.

The polished wooden surface had been completely invaded by an infantry of books, their hardback covers glinting in the soft light. Ed glanced underneath the table to find the box from this afternoon – slightly damp, but still largely unharmed thanks to its waterproof packaging. It was left wide open, and another pile of books – these ones looked much older, their covers frayed and pages yellowed – rested contently inside.

"So _this_ was your top priority delivery?" Edward grinned from ear to ear. " _Books?_ "

"A problem, Fullmetal?" asked Mustang, cocking one eyebrow.

"Oh no, I just never took you for the bookworm sort of guy."

Mustang folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. "How do you think I learned alchemy?"

Edward shrugged. "Good point." he scanned the strangely new books, frowning perplexedly – some of them had been left open, pages exposed and unsheltered from the freezing night chill.

Those pages were devoid of visible words.

"How are you even –" Ed curiously ran a finger down the side of one page. Numerous slight indentions and raised bumps rustled against the sensitive receptors underneath his skin. He blinked once, and his mouth formed a small 'o' of realization.

"Apparently alchemists who are also blind are few and far in between," observed the colonel nonchalantly as he paused in the moving of his hand across the page of the book spread out in front of him. "I had to get a few of these custom made in Central. The original copies are still in the box."

That explained why some of the books were old and the others new. Edward spread his hand flat against one of the pages, its texture thick and rich, wondering with a mixed sentiment of awe and admiration how this strange maze of seemingly random dots even made _sense_ to Mustang.

"Why don't you just get one of the men to read to you?" asked Edward, flipping the book over to check the title but realizing in dismay that it was also printed in that strange code of dots and bumps.

"They did, for the first month or so." replied Mustang, resuming the perusal of his book. "But it really was too time consuming a process, and besides," he cocked his head in contemplation. "Hawkeye's voice was getting a little hoarse."

Edward tapped the deceptively blank page thoughtfully. "I can read to you."

Mustang's eyebrows shot up so high they almost disappeared into his hairline.

"I mean, if you want me to. And if you ask nicely." Edward amended hastily, scowling at the table. "Besides, I lost that chess match on the train, so I'm still obligated to do what you tell me to."

If possible, the colonel raised his eyebrows even higher. "And to think I'd almost forgotten about our little agreement." he perched his chin on a folded hand, seeming to mull over his options.

"Get me a coffee and pick a book, Fullmetal."

Edward's scowl deepened and he replied in irritation: "I'm not your coffee boy!"

"You asked for it."

So that was how the two alchemists ended up sitting side by side at the dining table, two mugs of hot coffee amongst the scattered books puffing wispy clouds of steam into the still night air. Edward extracted a particularly ancient-looking book with a frayed red cover from the box and read the title aloud: " _Ophthalmology and the Study of the Human Eye._ Most of these books are medical texts."

Mustang shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe my condition is a purely physical one and simple to fix. All I need to do is find the correct solution."

"If you say so…" said Ed, flipping open the book and clearing his throat professionally. "Okay, first page: _The human eye is an organ which reacts to light and pressure. As a sensory organ, the mammalian eye allows vision. Rod and cone cells in the retina allow conscious light perception and vision including colour differentiation and the perception of depth…_ "

Edward continued on for about seventy more pages, occasionally stopping to note down something interesting or when Mustang posed a question. The clock struck the third hour, and Edward paused in his reading to the sound of heavy breathing.

Ed lowered the book to find the colonel asleep on the table, the side of his cheek pressed against the smooth cover of one of his books. His chest rose and fell evenly in time to the slow, relaxed breaths of slumber, strands of jet black hair already slipping down his face and obscuring his closed eyelids.

Edward rolled his eyes, setting down his book softly on the tabletop. "Figures. Lazy bastard."

The golden-haired boy rose quietly from his seat, cleared away their cups, and disappeared into the colonel's room only to re-emerge with a heavy blanket.

Hesitating slightly and scowling fiercely at what could only be described as embarrassment, Ed awkwardly wrapped the blanket around Mustang's sleeping shoulders, exactly like what Al used to do when Edward was the one passed out on the one of the library tables.

Ed stood back to survey his handiwork and smirked softly. "Do you know…" he asked the silent Sersan night. "The ending lyrics of _Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head_?"

"Mm, no. Never cared, still don't." answered Mustang drowsily, snuggling deeper into his swathe of blankets.

Edward jolted at the sound of his voice and stared angrily up at the ceiling, face flushing with bright heat. "You – you cheater!"

"What about the lyrics, Elric?" his eyes were still closed, dark lashes prominent against the paleness of his face.

Ed glared at the swaying kitchen light, but when he opened his mouth, it was the soft notes of melody which drifted dreamily into the still air:

" _Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'…_

 _But there's one thing,_

 _I know,_

 _The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me,_

 _It won't be long till happiness steps up to_

 _greet me…_ "

Edward cleared his throat and threw his hands up in exasperation. "There! Happy now?"

There was an amused smile on Mustang's otherwise peaceful countenance. "If this is some weird way of encouraging me, Fullmetal – it's very…eccentric."

Edward gritted his teeth. "Shut up!"

"Mmph." Mustang shifted his head into a more comfortable position. "Night."

Ed stared down at his feet, face now thoroughly red. "Night." he mumbled incoherently.

The next morning dawned bright and early, and Hawkeye would exit her room only to find the colonel fast asleep on their dining table, and a certain blonde teenager snoring fitfully on the couch.

She smiled lightly and strode into the kitchen to get the coffee going, her footsteps soft and gentle.

"Children." Hawkeye commented to herself ruefully.

* * *

 **Note: In my defence, my sister is performing that song for her school and I couldn't resist using the lyrics (as cliche as they might seem). And before anyone gets any ideas, no, that song doesn't actually exist in Amestris (it's in the absolutely wrong time period and the absolutely wrong universe for that matter.)**


	7. Chapter 7 - Hollow

**Author's Note:  
**

 **A quick apology regarding my very short hiatus last week - you know, due to that rather annoying thing we call 'real life'.**

 **A short comment on the medical knowledge alluded to in this chapter, which is a combination of what I've read off the Internet, information from a relative of mine who's an actual opthalmologist (she probably has no idea why I want that info) and highschool biology classes - so in short, don't count on me for scientific accuracy. Small discrepancies may apply.**

 **PS. Some of you may have noticed I changed the summary. Could I have some advice on that? Basically, was the previous one better?**

 **As always, thanks to all of you who've hit that _follow_ button and was kind enough to review! I can't even begin to express how much that means to me.**

 **Reply to emmahoshi: Haha, I often forget that Australia is literally on the other side of the planet. Thanks~ I really do hope I can make writing a professional career someday. :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own FMA or any of its characters (duh).**

* * *

 _Chapter 7 – Hollow_

The half-dozing librarian jolted awake at a loud _crash!_ next to his ear, vibrations skittering across the scratched wooden counter and rattling his teeth.

Jerking up and blinking rapidly, the elderly caretaker of the Sersan library pushed his long-sighted glasses further up his nose, squinting at the two golden blobs standing before him.

One of the blobs waved a hand in impatient annoyance, and the librarian adjusted his spectacles further until the pair of brothers gradually came into focus.

The shorter one, with long hair the colour of the sun tied down his back in a simple braid, poised his hands on his hips and scowled ill-naturedly. "We're here to return these." he pounded a clenched fist on the pile of books he had slammed down on the counter barely moments ago.

The librarian regarded the bad-tempered teenager with a judgemental gaze, his glasses slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose until he moved to rescue it from falling off completely. With a grunt of exertion, he hoisted the leather-bound books onto a creaky metal trolley positioned next to his chair. "Will there be anything else?"

"Pardon my brother." said the second boy politely. "He's just not a morning person."

The scowl on the first brother's face deepened further. "I'm _totally_ a morning person, Al!"

"Of course you are, brother." said Alphonse coolly, used to countering his older brother's erratic moods and erratic temper. "Mr. Librarian, do you mind if we borrowed a light? We wanted to look around on the basement level."

The librarian frowned. "But that's the alchemy section."

Edward snorted in indignation. " _Mister_ , do you have any idea who you're speaking to?"

The elderly man stared unblinkingly at Edward, then shook his head.

Ed raised himself a little taller, puffing out his chest importantly. "I am the –" he thrust a hand into his pocket, frowned, dug around for a moment longer, and suddenly snapped out an arm to clutch his brother's shoulder in horror. "Al, I forgot I no longer have my State Alchemist watch."

Alphonse shook his head and sighed to the heavens. Really, what had he done to deserve such a scatterbrained brother? "We're the Elric brothers." Al repressed a smile. "Surely you've heard of us?"

The librarian thoughtfully directed his gaze upwards, as if performing a quick rummage through his cluttered mental attic. He slowly lowered his eyes to Al's and shook his head empathetically.

"Sheesh." muttered Edward, rather deflated. "Have you been living under a rock or something?"

"Can't say I've ever been more than a hundred yards away from the library for about a decade or so." replied the librarian honestly, taking off his glasses and wiping down the grimy lenses with his shirt. "Town life's too hectic for me."

Edward's hand connected with his forehead, the alchemist completely giving up on initiating a proper conversation with the reserved old hermit. "Whatever. Just give us a lamp."

The librarian promptly produced an ancient-looking gas lamp from underneath the counter, its bronze handle creaking as he laid it before the brothers. One wrinkled hand delved into a coat pocket, and he held out a yellowed box of matches to Edward. "Remember to return it once you're done."

Ed swiped the box and picked up the lamp, which emitted a tortured squeal every time its rusted hinges swung in one direction or another. "Thanks."

Together, the Elric brothers made their way through the dark winding passages of dusty bookshelves, eventually arriving at the spiralling stairwell which they had visited barely two days before. The alchemy collection down in the basement – though relatively small – had titles unique and rare enough to send any self-respecting alchemical scholar into a complete frenzy.

Edward set down the lamp, unlatched the little glass door and turned on the gas. Alphonse folded his arms and settled back to wait as his brother cursed and swore through about a dozen broken or just plain useless matches before a small flame finally flickered to life inside the sooty glass housing. It was times like this when Ed wished Mustang and his flame alchemy were present – if anything, the colonel was certainly useful for lighting lamps.

"Are we still focusing on medical books, brother?" inquired Al as their footsteps echoed off the damp stone walls.

"Mm… I was hoping to expand our search into Eastern Alkahestry. It was a really promising lead back when we were still hunting for a way to regain our bodies – who knows, maybe there's still some untapped potential there that we haven't looked into." mused Edward as they descended the final few steps and emerged into the small underground chamber sparsely lined with half-rotten bookshelves.

The Elrics browsed quickly through the old manuscripts and texts, many of which seemed so fragile with old age that Al feared they would disintegrate on touch. The morning's meeting with the Ishvalan leader had been postponed till the morrow, and the brothers had decided to make use of the extra time to peruse the library.

Alphonse often felt that every problem in the world could be fixed with a good book. It was a hope which he had stubbornly held onto throughout their search for the Philosopher's Stone – that those countless hours of tireless research would eventually yield the elusive red stone.

"Al! Take a look at this!"

Al swivelled around at the sound of his brother's voice, heart soaring at the prospect of Edward having found a long lost manuscript leading to some miraculous cure.

Instead, Ed was currently engaged in the peculiar activity of examining the side of a bookshelf, cocking his head and holding up his lamp to illuminate the thin lines and swirls of ancient wood. "Come over here for a second."

Alphonse, exasperated but intrigued nonetheless, strode over to crouch next to Edward. "What is it, brother?"

Ed held out a hand next to the slim, dark gap where the back of bookshelf met the hard stone wall. "Can you feel that?"

Al leaned in closer, and felt the slightest whisper of a breeze murmur against his cheek.

He withdrew, blinking at his brother in amazement. "You don't think –"

Edward grinned almost maniacally, and would probably have rubbed his hands in glee if not for the gas lamp poised in between his fingers. "Secret passages hidden behind musty bookshelves are always a good sign, wouldn't you say so? Help me move this."

Between the two brothers, no small amount of exertion and a few minor injuries caused by falling books bouncing off Edward's head, they managed to shove the heavy bookshelf away from the wall to create a gap large enough for a slim teenager to squeeze through.

Before Alphonse could even warn his brother against the dangers of casually waltzing into a mysterious dark passage hidden at the back of some underground basement, Ed had already slipped into the gaping fissure in the wall.

Al pressed his lips together in distaste as he hurried after Edward, having to push and strain against the heavy form of the bookshelf before he finally wriggled free of the narrow gap and found himself enveloped in cool darkness.

Edward raised the lamp above his head like some sacrificial offering to a god they didn't believe in, and the flickering flames within shone out in ripples of alternating light.

Alphonse blinked and gaped at the high rock ceiling, strange fiery shadows spilling across its roughly excavated surface. The curved walls spiralled around them into a black abyss – a tunnel.

Edward peered down either side of the long passageway, scrunching up his eyebrows in perplexity. "This seems familiar…" he glanced down as the edge of his shoe thudded against something metallic, only for his eyes to be temporarily blinded by the sudden glare of light reflecting off murky metal.

He blinked the spots out of his eyes and stared down at the rusty, unused rail tracks snaking across the rocky ground.

"Oh."

Alphonse squirmed, suddenly uneasy.

Edward turned around, and the maniacal glee on his face had morphed into an expression of disappointment. "It's Sloth's tunnel."

Alphonse swallowed and averted his eyes away from the ceiling to gaze down the darkened tunnel. "I thought it was destroyed after the Promised Day."

Edward shook his head. "This subterranean network stretches throughout Amestris – it's impossible to destroy without inflicting _some_ amount of damage to the surface. Guess since it's not doing much harm, it's here to stay – at least for now." he tapped the toe of his leather boot against the metal tracks. The resulting _clang clang clang_ reverberated down the tunnel, the shadowy walls returning its sinister echoes to Alphonse's ears. The younger brother instinctively flinched away.

Alphonse was silent for a moment longer. "…Brother? Can we go back now?"

Edward looked up in surprise. "Huh?"

"Please?" added Al swiftly, swivelling around and squeezing through the gap in the wall, re-emerging in the library's basement.

He exhaled a long sigh of relief at being out of that stifling hole of darkness and evil things. Edward joined him barely seconds later, a puzzled but resigned look on his face – he didn't really feel like exploring that little tunnel of horrors anyway.

Together, the Elric brothers moved the heavy bookshelf back over the secret opening, securing it in place with a grunt.

It wasn't long before they were back on the sun-drenched surface once again, and Alphonse raised his face to soak in this blissful world of light.

He couldn't understand how anyone could bear living in darkness.

* * *

Edward Elric wasn't quite sure where his peculiar habit of kicking open doors had come from or when exactly it had started, but one thing was certain – it wasn't about to go away anytime soon.

It did _not_ help that he reflexively used his automail leg on such exploits, which had earned him an earful or two from Granny Pinako and Winry ( _Edward! Why can't you open the door like a_ normal _person!_ ).

So when Ed raised his boot and quite literally stomped through the door leading to Mustang's suite, the doorknob slamming mercilessly into the wall (someone with excellent sense had opted to move the newly repaired vase out of the way, thank goodness), the colonel's customary response was only to be expected.

" _Fullmetal._ The _furniture_."

"Hmph." Edward tossed his head high, feeling too smug with himself to be put off by a snide remark. "Guess what I brought you."

The teenager held up the plastic bag clutched in his right hand with a sense of triumph.

Colonel Roy Mustang, who was currently seated on the couch, cocked his head as he registered the sound of rustling plastic. "Sure Fullmetal, show the blind person what you're holding in your hand. Genius."

Edward's grin morphed into a scowl as Alphonse entered the room, struggling to close the door behind him as he balanced a small stack of books with one arm. "You _could_ try showing us a little gratitude. I spent a good half hour in line to buy –" he stopped in midsentence as his golden gaze alighted on another person in the room, who was sitting in an armchair opposite the colonel. "Dr. Blake?"

Leonardo Blake turned around and awarded the two boys with a wide smile which crinkled the corners of his wise, intelligent eyes. "Hello, Elric brothers. I hope you don't mind me intruding."

Edward's gaze lingered on the small metal case sitting open on the coffee table, examining the various lenses, scopes and medical devices nestled snugly within its dark velvet interior – lovingly polished till their silver handles reflected the sunlight – with both scholarly curiosity and a repulsion born of a general loathing for doctors and hospitals. He'd completely forgotten that Dr. Blake would be dropping in today to perform a more comprehensive medical examination on the colonel.

"No, not at all." said Ed absentmindedly, moving over to the dining table to deposit the box of Sersan honey cakes he'd purchased down the street. Hawkeye looked up from where she was surveying a report scrawled haphazardly in Havoc's unmistakable handwriting, shooting Edward a soft smile in greeting. Unlike Mustang, she was outfitted in full military dress, as if she anticipated having to head out on official business soon – most likely regarding investigative efforts on the attack the previous day.

Both Elric brothers edged closer inquisitively to where Dr. Blake was holding a strange device up to his eye – it consisted of a cylindrical metallic handle topped with a revolving silver disc fitted with multiple lenses. His other hand held a larger lens, almost perfectly circular, up to the colonel's grey right iris, then shifting it to his left.

Dr. Blake sensed the Elrics' piqued interest. "This is called an opthalmoscope." he explained without looking up. "In summary, we can use it to examine the eye's interior through the pupil and detect any misalignments or defects. Usually, I would use an external source of light to better illuminate my view, but this room is bright enough for that purpose."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "Intriguing."

"Very." agreed Dr. Blake with almost childish enthusiasm. "Till today, I stand firm in my opinion that ophthalmology is one of the most interesting specializations in the medical field."

The Ishvalan doctor set his lenses down carefully in his lap, frowning contemplatively. "Strange."

"What is?" asked Mustang, resting his head on a propped hand.

Instead of answering, Blake re-deposited his medical tools back in their little case, before pulling out his small torchlight and shining it in Mustang's eyes. "Tell me, colonel – what do you see right now?"

Mustang didn't blink. "Uh, nothing?"

"No change?"

"No. Just darkness."

Blake clicked off his light and rubbed the slender edge of his jaw line, his expression perplexed. "And I was so sure it was corneal opacity. You had all the symptoms."

Edward leaned in closer over the couch, nearly losing his balance and toppling onto the cushions. "Say what now?"

"Corneal opacity." replied Mustang promptly, a small smirk quirking the edges of his lips. "It's a disorder of the cornea where it becomes too thick, taking on a milky, cloudy appearance and therefore impeding light from entering the eye."

"Show-off."

"Thank you."

Blake raised an impressed eyebrow. "You've done your research, colonel. But in the case of a damaged cornea, the patient should still have _some_ sensation of light and dark. Total blackness, which translates to a complete inability to detect light, is usually a problem of the optic nerve."

"Which is the nerve connecting the eye to the brain." explained Mustang.

"Shut up. I _know_ that." scowled Edward.

The doctor, to his credit, wasn't fazed by the two alchemists' constant bickering. "But really, I can't figure out _how_ your optic nerve would have gotten damaged. Pressure in the eye is regular…No other abnormalities…"

"But that's progress, isn't it?" piped up Alphonse in his cheerfully optimistic manner. "At least we know what the problem is. Can we fix it?"

"Oh, if it were just a damaged or problematic cornea, a transplant would be the best course of action." Dr. Blake reached out a hand, shutting his metal case and flipping the latch close. "But when it comes to a damaged optic nerve…Frankly, with our current medical knowledge, there's no known method of curing such a condition."

Edward blinked. Once. Twice. _No…That can't be it._

Next to him, he vaguely registered his brother emit a soft intake of breath.

"I see." the colonel was the first to make a response. He had put on that terrifying mask of complete blankness once again – calm and in control. But no, it always scared Edward when Mustang looked like that.

Dr. Blake shook his head remorsefully. "I regret that I wasn't of more help, colonel. Perhaps what you really need is professional assistance at an actual hospital with access to the latest technological advancements."

Mustang smiled humourlessly. "Perhaps. Though I doubt that another hospital could accomplish much more."

Edward bit his lip and rubbed the back of his neck, absolutely refusing to show his distress at this sudden setback.

Oh, Truth had _really_ screwed them over this time.

A soft knock on the main door interrupted his thoughts – at first so hesitant that Edward thought he'd imagined it.

There was a pause, then a louder, more resolute knock.

Edward straightened with a mumbled: "I'll get it."

Pulling open the door a crack, Ed peered out at the young stranger standing in the hallway.

He looked barely older than Edward, blonde hair cropped short and neat, combed back as crisply as his impeccable uniform. At the slightest sound of the door creaking open, the young officer snapped into a jittery salute.

Edward scrunched up his face and frowned darkly. "Who the hell are _you_?"

"Um," the man's salute wavered and dropped as he gaped down in confusion at the younger alchemist. "Who… Never mind. Is this Colonel Mustang's room?"

Ed's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Yes. What do you want?"

The man looked slightly taken aback at being spoken to in such a coarse manner by a clearly civilian teenager. And they said that _respect_ was all part of the package of being military. "I'm Major Gabel, the new State Alchemist sent to assist General Rourke. He has requested First Lieutenant Hawkeye's presence in the dining hall."

Edward shot a look over his shoulder at Alphonse. _Another State Alchemist?_

This can't be good.

The clearly newly appointment major had spoken loudly enough for all of the room's occupants to have heard his request, and Hawkeye instantly materialized at Ed's shoulder. "I'm Lieutenant Hawkeye. Did General Rourke specify why he wanted to speak to me?"

Major Gabel took one look at the gun on her waist, strapped professionally in its leather holster, and decided to take a respectful step backwards. "Just that he wanted to discuss something with you, in private. I'm unaware of the details."

Edward was having a hard time regarding this young, meek, and obviously inexperienced alchemist as a legitimate threat.

Hawkeye glanced back, her eyes almost searching out the colonel's upright figure instinctively. "Sir?" she questioned softly.

Mustang leaned back and waved a hand, completely indifferent – or at least, he attempted to seem so. "Go ahead, lieutenant."

Hawkeye pressed her lips together in a thin, displeased line, before turning stoically back to Rourke's little messenger. "Of course. Lead the way."

Edward watched as the door was closed behind Hawkeye's receding form.

The Elric brothers exchanged uneasy glances. Mustang sat back in his seat for a moment, eyes closed contemplatively. The sole sign of his agitation was the muffled tapping of a foot against the carpet.

He opened his eyes. "Fullmetal. The hotel dining hall is right below your room, isn't it?"

Ed cocked his head, recalling his mental map of the hotel which he'd assembled after examining the fire escape plan nailed to the wall of his suite out of boredom. "Yes… I think so?"

"Mind if I borrow it for a moment?" without waiting for a response, Mustang coolly stood up and marched towards the adjoining door.

Edward shared a shrug with his brother before hurrying after the colonel, whose anxiety was showing through his clumsy fumbling of the doorknob.

Mustang finally got the door open and strode to the centre of their living area. "Alphonse, is there a phone in this room?"

Al was beginning to have an inkling of what the colonel planned to do. "Yes, I think there is."

"Could you fetch it for me?"

As Alphonse hurried off in search of their telephone, Mustang crouched down on one knee, pushing aside the carpet and coffee table to create an empty space on the floor.

Edward assisted by shoving the table against the wall. "This is probably a very bad idea."

"Probably." The colonel shrugged. "But when has that ever stopped me?"

Alphonse returned with their phone cradled in his arms, its disconnected power cord trailing behind him like an extra tail.

Dr. Blake appeared in the doorway, watching curiously as Mustang laid the appliance on the floorboards, clapped his hands, and transmuted a two-way listening device, its receiving end discreetly strung through a small hole created in the morphed wood.

Blake tipped his head sideways and raised both eyebrows. "I have a feeling I'm not supposed to be seeing this."

"You're probably right, doctor." commented Edward, turning around from his crouched position.

"I should return to my hotel room and forget whatever I _thought_ I saw here, then." said Blake nonchalantly.

"That's probably for the best." replied Al readily, perched on the edge of the sofa like a nervous canary poised to take flight.

Blake shrugged and slapped on his hat. "I'll see you at dinner then, Colonel Mustang."

Mustang didn't offer much in form of a polite goodbye as the door clicked shut with the doctor's departure, being too engaged in the act of conducting some illegal espionage on a certain Amestrian general and his lieutenant.

Edward shamelessly leaned in closer to better hear the proceedings on the floor below.

For a few long minutes, the only sound which filtered into the tense, silent air was the unimportant murmurs of pointless dialogue supplied by the hotel's few dining customers, accompanied by the regular tinkling of cutlery. The dining hall, serviced by the hotel's catering service, was rather small – and it being past lunchtime, not many people were currently still eating downstairs. It should be reasonably easy to be able to pick up little snippets of conversation from any corner of the room.

As expected, there was the sharp click of military standard boots, and Edward fidgeted as Hawkeye's voice sounded clearly over the makeshift receiver laid on the floor. Ed realized that with such sound quality, they'd probably had the luck to be listening almost directly above her immediate position.

"Brigadier General, sir."

"Ah, First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, I gather?" General Rourke's voice sounded unmistakably through the fuzz of static. "Have a seat and join me for tea."

There was the clink of steel against ceramic as Rourke resumed dining.

"I appreciate the offer, sir. But I'd rather stand."

"Certainly." A pause. "Major Gabel, thank you for your assistance. You're dismissed."

There was the sharp clack of shoes being brought together. "Yes sir!"

As the major's footsteps gradually faded away, Rourke's voice crackled over the listening device once again. "I'm not a man of cutting corners and beating around the bush, so I'll get straight to the point here – you're an extremely talented soldier, Lieutenant Hawkeye, and I feel that your potential is wasted in your current position. So now I offer you a reasonable proposition: I could use someone like you on my side."

Edward widened his eyes and gritted his teeth. _The weasel._

Hawkeye's calm reply came almost before Rourke could finish his sentence. "If this is a job offer, general, I respectfully decline."

There was a soft, almost amused exhale of air from the general. "Why, lieutenant. You didn't even take a moment to consider my proposal."

"With all due respect, General Rourke – I am perfectly happy where I am right now. I have no reason to accept."

"Not even to advance your career? It shocks me really, how an officer of your calibre could remain under the radar and with such a low rank for so long."

"My career has never been one of my primary concerns."

"Is that so?" said Rourke, with the air of a cat playing with a freshly captured mouse, but finding the game increasingly uninteresting. "My offer will always be open, if you change your mind."

"That's unlikely sir, but I thank you."

"Hmph. Lieutenant, you're dismissed."

Edward blinked in muted shock, shooting a quick glance in Mustang's direction. The colonel sat back on the floor, a strangely pained expression on his face.

In a way, it didn't surprise Ed that Rourke had made such a move, probably just for the fun of it – the general seemed to exist solely for the purpose of getting under Mustang's skin – but he was also oddly astonished by how quickly Hawkeye had rejected the offer.

But it made sense that way…didn't it?

"Ehm, colonel?"

The voice from the open doorway nearly startled them all out of their skins.

Edward and Alphonse jumped guiltily to their feet, conveniently concealing Mustang's still-crouched form with their bodies.

"F – Falman! What are you doing here?" Ed forced a laugh at the sight of the silver-haired warrant officer standing at their door.

Warrant Officer Falman frowned and leaned sideways, trying to catch a glance of what secret occurrence the Elrics were acting so suspiciously over. But all he glimpsed was the soft flash of a transmutation, and the colonel suddenly appeared over the brothers, his face a cool veneer. "If you're looking for Hawkeye, she's out at the moment."

Falman furrowed his eyebrows and mentally shook his head to himself, neglecting to comment on why exactly the colonel had been on the ground and – what the heck – why was there a _phone_ sitting on the floor?

"I'm actually looking for Alphonse, sir. The post office has been giving Havoc grief over damage reimbursements. Apparently, insurance doesn't cover things such as accidental gunfights. He was wondering if Al could come over and give the place a bit of a fix up." replied Falman uncertainly.

"Oh, sure. I'll go." Alphonse directed a doubtful glance at his brother.

Edward grinned in reassurance. "I would help if I still had alchemy, but looks like this one's all you, Al."

"I'll try to get back before dinner." promised Al quickly, before striding over to join the still-utterly-confused Falman.

Left alone in the sudden silence of their living room, Edward risked a glance at the colonel. "Are you…sure you're okay?"

Mustang didn't turn around.

"Of course I am. Never been better."

* * *

Riza Hawkeye was a practical girl.

Pragmatic and down to earth, she'd learnt at a very young age not to wish for things she could never have. Her father had called such a trait _commonsensical_ , and seemed to think of it as a good thing to have in a doting daughter. Her peers however, had nicknamed her ' _sensible Riza_ ' – and Riza was fairly certain they didn't mean it in a good way.

 _Poor Riza, sensible Riza._ Having to scrape by with what little money her father had, Riza learnt to be prudent with her weekly allowance, to mend otherwise unsalvageable things, to ration her food so that a week's worth of groceries could last for two.

Even after Roy, even after the military, Riza still felt like that part of her – _sensible Riza_ – had never truly gone away.

Lieutenant Hawkeye rapped her knuckles softly on varnished wood and settled back to wait. She'd run into Alphonse and Falman on their way out downstairs, and the living room was currently deserted – neither Edward nor the colonel anywhere to be seen. "Sir? Are you in there?"

A long moment of silence stretched out into the heavy air of near-twilight. Hawkeye found her eyes being drawn imperceptibly to the ticking clock on the wall.

Finally, his voice sounded from behind the door. "Come in."

Riza turned the knob and entered the darkened room.

Dusk had fallen outside the open window, and fiery silhouettes of pink and gold and scarlet danced mischievously across the floorboards, the wooden panels their empty canvas, casting deeper shadows in deep crevices and rippling light on everything else.

Roy Mustang was sprawled on the edge of his bed, the paper box of miniature cakes Edward had purchased sitting open and half-empty on the white sheets. He had his back against the window, a halo of flaming light outlining his figure in sharp relief, even as his face remained murky and shrouded in shadow.

Her dark angel, her noble demon.

Riza felt just the whisper of a shiver trace its cold fingers across the back of her neck. Something was different. Something had changed _._

Roy shifted around, the dying sunlight briefly flickering across unreadable features. "These are really good." he gestured lazily down at the cakes. "Though I'm fairly certain Fullmetal had already scarfed down about half of them before he even reached the front door."

Riza straightened her already rigid spine. "Sir –" she paused, unsure whether this question would come across as rash and thoughtless.

 _You aren't going to ask?_

Apparently he wasn't, as he casually took another bite out of the roll-shaped pastry poised in his hand. "Would you like one? I promise it's delicious."

Hawkeye uncertainly approached Mustang, her tense shoulders relaxing just a little. "Thank you, sir –"

As she reached down to take one of the cakes, his hand snapped out of the shadows, fingers wrapping around her wrist with unexpected precision.

Riza didn't have time to react before Roy pulled her down next to him. Strong fingers still grasping her wrist, he reached out his other hand towards her face, knuckles brushing gently against one red hot cheek.

Gradually, hesitantly, but then with a sudden flare of burning resolution, Roy Mustang leaned down into the soft curve of her body, his lips finding hers.

He tasted of sweet honey and smouldering flames, and Riza nearly startled back with the sudden intimacy. But her level-headed consciousness seemed temporarily detached from her physical shell, and against her own sound judgement, she cupped a hand against the nape of his neck and pulled him in closer.

Roy willingly adhered, his fingers tangling hopelessly in her flaxen hair.

Their kiss was less passionate fire and more tentative whisper – full of unspoken words and desperate desires. Riza closed her eyes – she was home, a place where she belonged and loved.

Her eyes snapped open.

She dropped her hands to his shoulders and clenched her fists, crumpling the light fabric of his shirt. Riza braced herself, and with strained effort, pushed him away as she gasped for breath.

Roy blinked, blank eyes staring at her as he cocked his head in almost puppy-like confusion.

Riza pressed her tingling lips together firmly. "Sir, that was…extremely inappropriate."

Roy smirked lazily and dropped his head down a little closer, his warm breath brushing against her flushed cheeks. "You don't have to tell me twice."

He kissed her again, and Riza felt a pang of sweet guilt at letting him.

Slipping a hand in between their crushed bodies, she spread her palm flat against his chest and shoved him away. " _Sir._ " she voiced meaningfully.

Mustang groaned softly and shifted around. Before Hawkeye could even finish reprimanding him, he had fallen heavily back onto the bedcovers like a stone, his head dropping into her lap.

He folded his arms behind his head and smiled up at her, expression bordering on smug and mischievous.

Hawkeye crossed her arms. "Sir, people may be watching."

"Who? Fullmetal's back in his room, and everyone else is out. The suite is deserted."

Riza sighed, her soft exhale rustling the fair strands of hair which had escaped their neat bun and were dangling in her face. "You know what I mean."

Roy was silent for a moment, unseeing eyes gazing at something faraway and beyond this world.

"I don't deserve you, Riza."

Hawkeye blew out an exasperated breath, suspicions now confirmed. "You were listening, weren't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Roy lied smoothly.

Riza let her hands drop, absentmindedly running tender fingers through his night-black hair. In some distant corner of her mind, she wondered when was the last time he'd gotten an actual haircut – to her knowledge, he often commissioned Hughes to hack off a bit of his hair whenever it got too unruly, and Hawkeye could always tell by how uneven it looked when he arrived for work the next morning.

"Lieutenant." Roy's countenance was completely sober now, his deep voice low and serious. "Edward's offer...do you think I should take it?"

Riza froze, her fingers tensing. "You mean…Ling's Philosopher's Stone?"

Roy nodded solemnly, all traces of humour gone from his expression.

Riza withdrew her hands, feeling them fist and un-fist, grabbing at thin air. Sometimes she felt she knew him better than he knew himself – but that strange blessing also came with the curse that there existed several thoughts in his mind which she would rather denounce. Ignore. Sweep under the carpet.

Nevertheless, knowing him meant that she understood. She knew, with almost agonizing realization, that his refusal of the Stone and the lives it contained was an act of soothing his guilt and pain – for what right had he, the man who had wronged them most and wounded them deepest, to accept their unwilling gift of his sight? What right had he to escape this just punishment?

But she also knew the doubts currently flitting through his mind. Time was running out, though how fast they did not know – his career was in jeopardy, and while that in itself wasn't the problem, he had made so many promises to so many people. He couldn't break those promises – hence he could no longer afford stay like this.

"I wonder…" mused Roy, his voice dreamy and distant. "If I were just a normal person, would this be easier? It must be – It must be so much easier to let go and give up if there weren't so many people relying on me to succeed."

"Well," commented Hawkeye drily. "If you were a 'normal' person, all of _this_ wouldn't have happened to you in the first place."

Roy chuckled lowly. "You make a valid point."

"Sir –"

"No, Riza. I want your honest opinion, but not as my lieutenant. I want you to tell me your thoughts as…whoever we are to each other when we're isolated and alone in the shadows like this."

Riza was silent. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. What she _really_ wanted was his sight back. What she _really_ wanted was for him to open his eyes and being able to see, actually _see_ her. But such selfish, undeclared thoughts wouldn't help him in the slightest.

So instead, she answered: "I think, you should do what makes you happy."

Roy snorted. "By this point, I'm quite sure 'happiness' ranks _pretty_ low on my list of priorities."

"Then that is a sad fact, colonel."

He sighed deeply. "One week."

"Mm?"

"By the end of this week, I'll have my answer. I promise you that."

Riza continued combing her fingers through the lush strands of his dark hair. "Then I'll be waiting – alongside the Elrics – sir." her mouth quirked in a rare smile as a sudden thought struck her. "I've noticed, colonel, that you refer to Edward by his first name only when you're anxious or when you think he's not in the room."

Roy made a nonchalant noise at the back of his throat. "Do I?"

"I think you should do it more often, sir." Riza was having trouble suppressing her smile now. "It sounds more…fond. And it may stop you two from squabbling over the most insignificant things like children."

Roy turned his head in her lap and closed his eyes. "Edward will always be Fullmetal – and that's final."

Riza laid a hand on his cool forehead. "Sir, your dinner appointment with Dr. Blake is in half-an-hour."

Roy sighed, but didn't open his eyes. "Five minutes, lieutenant."

Riza stroked his tousled hair. "Five minutes." she whispered.

 _A promise. A wish._

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye was a practical girl.

Pragmatic and down to earth, she'd learnt at a very young age not to wish for things she could never have.

But if there really existed a god, albeit one she had lost faith in – she had only one desire she wished fulfilled.

Riza wanted this moment to stretch on forever. This moment, where they were both happy and content, where the chaotic and merciless world scratched at the locked door of their safe haven, unable to enter.

That was a sensible, realistic request.

Wasn't it?

* * *

Edward pulled at his black shirt self-consciously, brushing a stray piece of lint off his trousers.

"Sheesh, colonel, did you _have_ to dress so formally for the occasion?"

Mustang cocked his head, the very picture of crisp tidiness, as they strode down the corridor towards the staircase. "But you see me in my uniform at least ninety percent of the time."

"But not for _dinner_ ," protested Ed, folding his arms behind his head. "No one wears a military uniform to _dinner_."

"I didn't bring anything that passed as formal. Besides, this is a serious meeting." Mustang had a hand half-braced against the wall, but quickly withdrew it as his sharp hearing picked up the muffled sound of footsteps on carpet before either Edward or Hawkeye did. "And," he added softly. "I'd much rather look official when dealing with _him_."

Ed's head automatically snapped around before instantly wishing that he'd ignored the approaching presence instead.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye." greeted General Rourke smoothly, blonde hair and blue uniform as prim and spruce as ever. "Colonel Mustang."

Both of them turned around and saluted with a sort of pensive reluctance, Hawkeye's movements much sharper than Mustang's.

"Lieutenant, I was just on my way to meet you." Rourke removed a folded slip of paper from the front pocket of his jacket, holding it out to Hawkeye. "The Cleric just sent a messenger to my room. He requests both of our immediate presences at his residence regarding an urgent matter."

Hawkeye accepted the slip of paper and unfolded it, rapidly scanning the words etched into its creamy surface. "Why? Did something happen?"

"The message was rather vague and didn't specify." replied Rourke. "But I expect that it has something to do with security concerns."

Hawkeye scrutinized the cursive signature decorating the very bottom of the brief message, before reluctantly deciding that this piece of 'business' seemed pretty legitimate. "But why me?"

Edward caught just the suggestion of a question, a slight raising of pitch, at the end of her spoken words.

 _Why not the colonel?_

Rourke shrugged, clearly indifferent and feeling rather smug about the whole thing. "As I said, I expect it to be a security concern."

Hawkeye wavered, casting Edward a fleeting glance of anxiousness which was efficiently schooled back into impartiality.

Ed, despite Al's complaints that he could be emotionally dense sometimes, interpreted that look perfectly. "I'll make sure he stays out of trouble." he jabbed a joking thumb in Mustang's direction.

Mustang looked tempted to roll his eyes, stopped only by the thought of it being too childish a gesture. "I grant you permission to leave with General Rourke, lieutenant." he said, tone official and completely neutral.

The sole indication of Hawkeye's hesitation was a slight pursing of her lips, otherwise, her expression betrayed nothing. "Yes sir." she answered promptly, before turning briskly to Rourke. "Shall we, general?"

"Of course." said Rourke, casting a rather condescending look over his shoulder as he and the lieutenant made their way down the stairs.

Edward huffed in annoyance as the two of them were once again left alone in silence. "Looks like it's just you and me."

"Relax, Fullmetal." smirked Mustang in that annoying nonchalant manner of his. "What's the worst that can happen in an hour?"

Edward cast him an exasperated look. "You have _got_ to stop saying that."

* * *

On the other side of the city, Alphonse clapped his hands and slapped them to the ground.

In a crackle of blue lightning, almost blindingly bright in the near-darkness of early dusk, the glittering carpet of broken glass shimmered and shivered like shifting snow, before gradually merging together and re-moulding themselves into their original, pre-destroyed form.

Al scrubbed a sleeve across his sweaty forehead, standing back to admire the alchemically-repaired glass doors of the post office. After years of helping his brother clean up his after-battle messes, Alphonse was getting quite good at this.

Any damage their impromptu transmutation may have caused during the previous day had completely vanished, replaced by a sparkling new awning and a pretty much freshly constructed post office.

Alphonse nearly jumped as a firm hand clapped down on his right shoulder. "Nice work, Al." Havoc grinned widely around his cigarette. "Looks good as new."

"I try my best." responded Al almost meekly, flushing as Havoc laughed at this habitual show of modesty.

Alphonse turned and strode around the earthen wall which was the main culprit in the decimation of a sizeable portion of the sidewalk, leaning his head thoughtfully on a hand – the picture of a genius architect surveying a complicated problem.

He and the colonel had certainly done some damage there, and it was true that the last thing on an alchemist's mind when transmuting an impromptu defense against a hailstorm of bullets was the clean-up afterwards. Al crossed his arms and sighed deeply – it was going to be a pain separating all that bits of tarmac from the road and gravel from the sidewalk.

The now-human boy approached this looming, ten feet dilemma, searching his mind for an easier solution.

In his peripheral vision, Alphonse could see swathes of yellow crime-scene tape cordoning off the immediate area. A single police car was parked outside the 'Military-Personnel-Only' border, and one of the local policemen was gesturing animatedly to Falman – while the warrant officer, to his credit, looked stubbornly unruffled as a flustered Fuery tried to calm the officer down. Apparently the locals had been giving the police grief over the temporary closing of the busiest section of town, and Havoc mentioned that they only had till the end of today to collect all the evidence, bag them, repair the damage, and get the hell out of there.

Alphonse slapped a hand to his thigh, finally coming up with an adequate fix. He was just about to clap his hands and press them to the makeshift barrier, before a strange detail caught his eye.

Al stood back. "Lieutenant Havoc? Is a bullet supposed to cause this little damage?"

"Hmm? Whadaya mean?" the blonde lieutenant materialized by the Elric's side in a matter of seconds, and he tapped a contemplating finger against the wall, which, save for a few minor chips and scratches, remained almost impossibly intact. "I see your point here."

Al shrugged, shaking off the strange cloak of uneasiness his little discovery had draped upon his shoulders. "It's probably nothing. I was just wondering because, well – my brother and I _do_ get shot at a lot, and our walls are usually bits and pieces by then. Then again, we generally only get attacked at close range."

Havoc rubbed a hand along his sharp jaw line, eyebrows furrowed. "I wonder…"

"Alphonse's right."

Both Al and the lieutenant reflexively whirled around at the emergence of a new voice.

Lieutenant Breda was striding briskly towards them, urgency radiating from every step. He brandished a clear plastic ziplock bag in one hand like a holy sword, the tiny cylindrical items contained within clicking and clattering with each jostle.

"There wasn't much damage because _these_ –" Breda shoved the ziplock bag underneath Havoc's nose to emphasize his point, revealing its contents to be spent cartridge shells and several dark, broken off fragments. "Aren't real bullets."

Havoc snatched the bag from Breda and held it up to the fading light, scrutinizing the deformed bullet fragments within. "What?"

"I just came back from forensics. I couldn't tell because of the heavy damage, but they confirmed it." Breda's face was completely solemn. "These are made of rubber."

"Rubber?" voiced Alphonse in astonishment, leaning in to take a closer look.

Breda nodded, his expression perplexed. "They hurt like hell, and can break bones and cause some nasty bruises, but they can't penetrate and kill."

"But… _why?_ " asked Havoc, tone bewildered. "Why would someone go through all that trouble to…"

He trailed off then, his words like ash in his throat – _why would someone go through all that trouble if_ not _to kill the colonel?_

"Have you spoken to Colonel Mustang?" asked Alphonse anxiously.

Breda shook his head, running a hand through rust-coloured hair.

"What's the motive?" wondered Havoc aloud, as if in a trance. "Why would they use rubber bullets? To scare us off? As a ruse?"

"The only viable witness account we have so far is the one from Dr. Leonardo Blake." In a sudden flash of inspiration, Breda reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little notebook with a blue leather cover, flipping through the pages before stopping about halfway through.

"So, at roughly eleven hundred hours yesterday morning, Dr. Blake overheard two men of Ishvalan descent – which were apparently patients at the clinic he volunteers at – speaking of their plans for the attack. In a panic, he first called the police station, who brushed him off as a hoax. Having run out of options, he remembered that the colonel would be meeting with the Grand Cleric at the slums, and made his way there, reaching the tent at twelve hundred hours. But by then, you had already left for town, and after inquiring about the colonel's whereabouts from one of the Cleric's guards on duty, he rushed to the post office and only barely managed to warn Havoc." Breda snapped his book shut, tapping a finger to his chin. "Falman and I went over to the clinic this morning, but since most of their patients are Ishvalans who can't afford professional medical attention, about two thirds of the people who came in the previous day matched the description Blake gave me."

"We haven't considered how they knew we were going to be at that _exact_ location at that _exact_ time either." Havoc chewed on his cigarette, the sound of which set Al's nerves on edge. "It all seems very suspicious to me."

Breda was silent for a long moment, eyes distant as he turned and regarded the opposite building – the one the snipers had used and where they'd recovered most of the shell casings. "What if they used rubber bullets because they didn't want to mortally harm any pedestrians? If not for the rain, this would usually be a very busy street."

Havoc snorted indignantly. "Breda, these are terrorists we're dealing with. Collateral damage is the _last_ thing on their minds."

"Havoc, let me finish." Breda waved a hand in Havoc's face impatiently. "What if we're not dealing with the run-of-the-mill rebel faction here? What if…"

Breda paused in his contemplation. Alphonse watched with morose inquisitiveness as his expression changed from thoughtful, to perplexed, and finally landing on something akin to restrained horror.

"Havoc." voiced the red-headed lieutenant quietly. "Let's take a quick trip down to the slums."

Havoc stared at Breda. "But we're not done –"

"Leave it!" barked Breda with a sudden influx of rare authority. Havoc's mouth snapped shut more out of sheer shock than out of any regard for Breda's order. "Let's go, _now._ "

Without waiting for a response, Breda swivelled and stalked towards their military car parked on the opposite side of the road.

Havoc and Alphonse had to jog to catch up with his brisk pace.

"Jeez, Breda." complained Havoc to the man he grudgingly admitted as his best friend. "Can't you at least tell me why this sudden bout of craziness?"

Breda tossed a look over his shoulder, his brown eyes inky black pools in the failing light. "There's something I need to confirm."

* * *

" – And that was how I ended up meeting Lieutenant Havoc in the pouring rain," pausing in a humorous moment of meditation, accomplished East City ophthalmologist Dr. Leonardo Blake angled a hand over his head in mimic of an umbrella. "But now that I think of it, I probably should have brought my umbrella. But ah! Those were frantic times indeed. I can barely recall the last time I was worked up into such a frenzy."

Edward giggled around his mouthful of roast chicken, already in the midst of attacking the remainder of his dinner. "We sure are lucky you came along, doctor."

"Yes." agreed Mustang, setting down his glass of plain water. To his credit, he seemed rather wary of consuming alcohol ever since the entire transmutation circle incident. "We thank you for all the assistance which you have provided us so far, Dr. Blake."

Edward regarded the colonel with slitted eyes as he continued stuffing more chicken into his mouth. Trust Mustang, as polished and precise as ever, to look right at home in this posh little setting – the hotel's dining hall, despite being small, was elegantly furnished with clinking crystal chandeliers, soft cream-coloured walls, and folded napkins in the shape of miniature pyramids which Ed _never_ got the point of using.

And, they weren't kidding around here when it came to the price tags.

Edward sprawled back in his chair, content and drowsy, stomach bursting with warm food. "Up for dessert, doc?" the golden haired boy grinned as he plucked a piece of garnishing from the side of his plate and popped it into his mouth. "The colonel's paying, so spare no expense."

"Fullmetal." protested Mustang in a pained voice.

"What? You're not expecting _me_ to pay, are you?" Ed grinned even wider as he stretched in his seat, earning a few reproaching glances from some of the adjacent customers. "After all, I'm just a kid."

Mustang looked just about ready to either douse Edward with water or simply pointedly ignore him when a uniformed server approached their table.

"Excuse me sires, but a phone call just arrived for a…" the attendant checked a short note he had scribbled on the palm of his hand. "Edward Elric?"

"That's me." piped up Edward energetically.

"Uh, yes." the waiter directed a bewildered look down at teenager. "Could you please come with me to the foyer?"

"Oh." Ed sat up a little straighter in his seat, furrowing his eyebrows. He was reluctant to leave the colonel completely unsupervised, but then again, Dr. Blake was here, and they _were_ in a crowded, albeit way-too-high-class, restaurant.

What's the worst that can happen?

"It's probably Winry." explained Edward apologetically as he rose from his chair. "I promised to call her once I reached Sersa."

Mustang hid a knowing smirk behind a well-placed hand. "And you forgot, didn't you?"

Edward narrowed his eyes and bit out an annoyed _Shut up!_ before following the waiter out of the dining hall.

He'd make this quick – Edward decided. He'd apologize, listen to Winry rant on the other side of the phone for a moment, skip the entire part where he wrestled with whether he should tell Winry he missed her, and promise to call her first thing next morning.

Back at the table, Dr. Blake raised a finger in the air to draw the attention of another server.

"Ah, colonel. How about a drink?"

* * *

The car screeched to a gritty stop on the sand-encrusted ground, dust motes lingering and drifting like lost spirits in the glaring headlights.

The wheels had barely ceased spinning when Breda practically leapt out of the car.

Havoc yelled after him as the sturdily built lieutenant disappeared into the deep shadows of the slums. Alphonse got out of the backseat, slamming the door close behind him and feeling rather dazed at this sudden turn of events.

Breda had already cornered two young Ishvalans dressed in the priestly robes of their religion by the time Al and his older companion managed to locate him outside the Cleric's tent.

"You're sure you've never seen a man of this description before?" Breda was inquiring urgently, a pen poised upon his notebook, its gleaming tip bleeding ink into snow white paper.

The man shook his head definitely. "Nope. Not in my life. No one stopped by to ask where your commanding officer was heading either."

"And you were the _only_ two men on guard duty?" pressed Breda.

"'Cuse me, have you _seen_ the living conditions here? Ensuring the safety of the Grand Cleric, while important, isn't as urgent as making sure everyone eats their fill. We can't spare as much manpower on security as you posh Amestrians." answered the guard most adamantly. "So yes – there were _only_ two of us here yesterday."

"Sheesh." Havoc spread his hands out, palms up, in a pacifying manner. "It was a simple question. You don't have to get so defensive about it."

The young Ishvalan, seeming to have overfilled his quota for talking to 'posh Amestrians' for one day, simply turned his head and pretended that they weren't there.

Havoc was too anxious about the results of Breda's impromptu interrogation to feel too offended at the blunt treatment. "Breda?"

Breda rubbed the back of his neck, slapping his notebook against the side of his arm. "But it doesn't make sense. If Leonardo Blake was never here to begin with… Did he lie in his witness statement? Or was it an honest mistake?"

Al started forward, about to state that Dr. Blake didn't seem like the sort of person who would lie intentionally when a new set of footsteps crunched up the narrow dirt path.

"Havoc? Breda?"

"Hawkeye?" The two officers whirled in surprise, staring as the lieutenant emerged from the claustrophobic embrace of near-darkness, the deep violet of twilight almost seeming to settle on her shoulders like a silken cloak.

Barely a step behind her was Brigadier General Matthew Rourke, his impeccably neat blonde hair a gleaming beacon amongst the creeping shadows.

Rourke immediately bypassed Havoc and Breda, striding confidently towards the Ishvalan guards. "I believe the Cleric is expecting us?"

Despite his impressive entrance, the guard remained resolutely unimpressed. "The Cleric has been feeling unwell since this morning. He doesn't want any visitors."

"We received a message from the Cleric." explained Hawkeye neutrally, reaching into the folds of her black greatcoat and rigidly offering the guards Rourke's slip of paper. "Apparently, it couldn't wait till tomorrow."

The first guard accepted the folded letter, and both Ishvalan men scrutinized the message it contained.

Finally, the guard shook his head in exasperation and returned the letter. "That isn't the Grand Cleric's signature – it _looks_ like it, but it definitely isn't."

Rourke snatched up the neat piece of paper, the leisurely smile on his face twisting into a horrendous scowl. "Then what is the meaning of this?"

"You've been duped, Mr. General." commented the Ishvalan nonchalantly, turning away with his companion. "Happens to the best of us."

Hawkeye emitted a sharp intake of breath at the announcement of the falsity of their message. "If you will excuse me, general."

Not waiting around for an answer, Hawkeye promptly swivelled and trod quickly back the way they'd come, calling for Havoc and Breda to hurry up with a clipped tone, Al hot on their heels.

There was no hiding the urgency in her movements, the loudness of each step as the soles of her boots crunched mercilessly against dirt and sand. "We should get back to the hotel." Hawkeye phrased it as a suggestion, but there was no doubt that it was an order.

Havoc and Breda exchanged cautious glances, morbid realization finally dawning upon them like the first torrent of cold water in the early morning shower.

For if _Hawkeye_ had been lured here…

Underneath the long billowing sleeves of her greatcoat, Riza Hawkeye clenched her fists.

 _Please, Edward. Don't let him out of your sight._

* * *

The Fullmetal Alchemist cradled the cool metal curve of the phone against his ear and frowned.

He glanced around the small waiting room the server had led him to, staring at the flowery wallpaper as he tapped a finger impatiently against the crook of his arm. Save for a ceramic vase on a small side table, two chairs and a large wooden cupboard, Edward was completely alone.

The long, persistent beeps from the phone continued to signal its efforts at reconnecting.

Edward scowled and slammed the phone back into its housing, picking it up again and rotating the dial in a quick series of numbers which had become almost second nature to him.

Why had Winry hung up on him before he could even get to the phone? Couldn't she be any _less_ impatient?

As Edward waited for the other end of the line to be picked up, holding the phone in between his ear and shoulder, he turned around and glanced out the large window which offered a perfect view of the adjacent street.

For a small town the size of Resembool, Sersan nightlife was surprisingly lively. A pub was open on the opposite side of the street, and a three man band was playing out front, their soft jazz tones drifting hazily to Edward's ears.

Ed's blurred reflection flickered back at him amongst the blinking lights of the pub's neon sign.

His reflection, and…

There was a soft _click_ as the line connected.

" _Edward?_ "

Ed swivelled around without warning, raising the only weapon he currently held in his hands – which unfortunately, happened to be the phone – and tossed it, heavy base and all, at his assailant's head.

The power cord tore from its socket, and the telephone went sailing through the air, not hitting the masked man – who had emerged quietly from the wooden cupboard when Edward had his back turned, not counting on his hulking figure being reflected in the opposite window – but catching him by surprise nonetheless.

It had been months since Edward's last real fight, but one never truly forgets such things.

Taking advantage of the mystery man's shock at being robbed of his element of surprise, Ed lunged himself at him, slamming a fist into his covered jaw and quickly following it up with a sharp kick to the stomach.

Edward skipped back, muttering a string of curses as he rubbed his sore knuckles. He had used his once-automail arm for the punch out of sheer habit, and that arm just happened to be the one which had been stuck in the Gate for a good six years or so, malnourished and lacking in the strong muscles and bones of his tanned left arm.

His attacker stumbled back with a grunt, and Edward warily circled the taller and much sturdier man, eyes flitting quickly towards the closed door.

As much as he was tempted to, it would take too long to finish this fight. He had to get back and warn…

In his split moment of inattention, the man had recovered and was currently barrelling towards Edward. The golden-haired boy growled as a heavy strike glanced off his cheekbone, instinctively raising his arm to shield himself against the sudden onslaught of punches.

While he wasn't as short and slender as he was just several years ago, the mystery thug still had a good few inches on Edward.

Taking advantage of the annoying height difference, Ed ducked and struck out his automail foot, feeling its hard edge smash satisfyingly into his assailant's undefended shin.

The masked man gasped in pain and fell to one knee. Far from done, Edward followed up his attack with a brutal kick to the man's head, sending him sprawling.

Edward Elric stood over his defeated opponent, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. If he wasn't so out of practice, or for that matter, if he still had his alchemy, this fight would have been so one-sided it would've been over years ago.

Ed straightened. There was no time to search for rope to restrain the man, and _damn_ he wouldn't even _have_ this problem if he still had the ability to alchemize one out of the chair cushions. He would just have to run the risk of his unknown attacker regaining consciousness and escaping, but he had to get back to Mustang _now._ He seriously doubted that this guy was their sole uninvited visitor.

There was a sudden flash of white out of edge of his vision, and Edward turned.

The last thing he saw was the vase swinging down towards his head, then he was on the floor, coughing and groaning amongst shattered shards of ceramic.

Something warm and wet slipped down his face, dripping into his eyes and turning the world crimson. Edward blinked the blood away as he pushed up onto his hands and knees, head pounding and vision spinning.

"All you had to do was subdue _one_ kid, and you couldn't handle it?" An unfamiliar pair of leather boots appeared in Edward's hazy line of sight. Had this new invader entered the room while he was distracted?

"Ugh. _You_ try getting an automail foot to the face."

"Shut up and knock him out."

There was a shuffle of feet, and Ed grunted as someone's boot drove into his stomach, forcing him to collapse in another half-conscious heap on the ground.

A damp cloth was clamped firmly over his mouth, and the pungent smell of chloroform instantly filled Edward's nostrils, making him gag and struggle.

"Are you sure you don't want to take him as well?"

Edward felt darkness encroach upon the edges of his vision. He swore weakly and clawed at the man's hands, but his limbs were already beginning to turn numb.

"No, leave him. The boy's too much trouble."

Ed's eyelids flickered, and the final sound he heard before slipping away into unending blackness was that voice, as hoarse as desert sand.

"Besides, we already have what we came for."

* * *

"Wine? Or juice?"

"Something non-alcoholic would be just fine, thank you." answered Roy, clinking his spoon against the side of his bowl contemplatively. He wasn't even sure what it was that he'd ordered, as the local delicacies possessed rather obscure names.

There was the creak of a chair and a murmur of voices as Dr. Blake turned and ordered a jug of passionfruit juice. Roy sat back and tapped a foot impatiently against the floorboards – he'd never thought he would ever see the day he felt uncomfortable and fidgety in a crowded area, having being literally brought up in a bar.

The distant voices of multiple conversations, the low rumble of noise and clinking of plates seemed to converge upon him in a great, suffocating cloud. Roy shook himself and sat a little straighter. Unfamiliar environments always seemed to set him on edge nowadays.

"So colonel, do you see your family often?"

Roy jolted at the sound of Blake's voice and the eccentricity of the nature of the question asked.

"Oh, I don't mean to pry." remedied Blake apologetically.

"No, I don't mind." voiced Roy softly. "I lost my parents when I was very young, so I guess I've never really…known what a family is."

It was an automated response programmed into his subconscious since early childhood. Strangely, the asking of that particular question – the customary _who are your parents?_ – had dwindled in quantity as he had grown up and matured. The military wasn't generally interested in your familial background either, a fact which Roy was rather grateful for.

"What about you, Dr. Blake?" asked Roy quickly in an attempt to disperse the awkwardness his response may have caused.

"My son and daughter both reside in East City." answered Blake soberly, though there was just the hint of a smile in his voice. "I often think of them when I'm away on business. Sometimes I look at them and feel rather proud of myself for raising such wonderful children – my wife passed on some years back, you see."

"Oh." said Roy. "I'm sorry…about that."

"Ah, it happened many years ago."

The thump of something heavy being set down on the table and the clink of glasses alerted Roy to the presence of one of the waiters.

"Your order, sir."

Blake thanked the server and poured both of them a drink. "I don't believe you've ever tried passionfruit before, colonel? It's from an exotic plant found only in the warmer Eastern reaches."

"Only on occasion." answered Mustang, wrapping his fingers around the cool, moist surface of his glass and raising it to his lips.

The drink was a combination of sweet pulp and bitter seeds, the taste of which wasn't all that appealing to Roy, but he downed the entire glass out of politeness anyway.

Blake refilled his glass. "You say you've never really known what a family is, colonel – but I see that you have found yourself a great one."

"Oh?" inquired Roy vaguely, rubbing the side of his neck as he tried to disperse a strange surge of tiredness, rolling through his mind like a thick fog.

"Your subordinates, colonel. And the Elric brothers – despite what they say, it's almost comically clear to any bystander that they respect you and look up to you. They all care about you very much." Blake tapped a finger on their table, the rhythmic sound of nail against wood suddenly oddly loud even amongst the buzz of the restaurant. "A shame, really – it makes me wonder, how many people have fallen for that façade of yours."

"What?" asked Roy blearily. He pressed his hand to his forehead as a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him.

He instinctively braced an arm on the table to steady himself, the back of his hand knocking against the wet surface of his glass.

He heard it shatter on the floor. Clinking glass shards like falling stardust.

"Tell me, Colonel Mustang." Roy raised his head in a daze at the sharp sound of Blake's voice, a gleaming sword in this hazy world of sound. It had changed – in what aspect exactly Roy's blurred mind couldn't tell. Colder and more distinct. "Do you remember the faces of those you've murdered?"

The doctor was very close now, his presence a looming spot of black at the edges of Roy's consciousness. His voice was low, a breathy whisper. "Or were they _nothing_ to you?"

"I don't…" Roy pushed back his chair and stood unsteadily. Why was the haze getting worse? No, where was Edward? He should have been back by now. Hells, he couldn't think straight.

Without warning, Roy felt the strength in his legs give way to numbing coldness, and he pitched forward, hand slipping off the table.

A firm arm caught him, and Roy blinked drowsily.

A patter of feet, a murmured conversation. Blake's voice was now directly above him. "No, it's okay. I think my friend is just feeling a little under the weather today. I'll escort him back to his room."

Roy's position was shifted. Sounds and scents faded in and out of the darkness, assaulting him in strange pulses and surges. They were moving – or rather, he was being hoisted along.

Was he that light, or was the doctor just that strong?

No, something wasn't right about this.

The sharp bite of cold air in his face woke him up a little. It was silent, save for the scraping of his shoes as his feet dragged and stumbled on what felt like rough gravel.

Not silent. Jazz music, coming from around the corner.

They were leaving the hotel.

That thought briefly brought Roy out of the reaches of the foggy tendrils encasing his mind and grasping at his consciousness. He struggled, trying to push himself away. "…doctor?"

The hands holding him let him go, and he felt his shoulder thump against cold hard metal. He could smell old leather seats and engine grease. The back of a van?

Roy jerked up, a sudden primal sense of danger sending a rush of adrenaline through his veins, combating whatever drug he was under the influence of. His fingers instinctively poised to snap, but then he realized he wasn't even wearing his gloves.

 _Where are they?_ You gave them to Hawkeye, remember?

 _Crap, why didn't I bother to bring a spare?_

Too lightheaded to run, he moved to clap his hands, but what would he transmute?

"He's waking up." A new voice. Unfamiliar and muffled.

"That's only to be expected. Orally consumed drugs aren't as potent."

Another pair of strong hands grabbed his shoulders, slamming him to the metal floor. He struggled weakly, but felt impossibly, impossibly helpless.

"Hold him steady."

There was a sharp pain in the side of his neck. Roy jolted away, but the haze was already becoming too much.

It was impossible for his world to become any darker, but that was exactly what seemed to happen. His purchase on reality slipped, and he was in freefall.

 _Falling._

 _falling._

 _nothing._

 _abyss._

 _Atone for your sins, alchemist._


	8. Chapter 8 - Tea Party

**Author's Note:**

 **And here I have a confession to make:**

 **I made a _mistake_ \- Falman isn't actually a Warrant Officer. He got promoted to Second Lieutenant at Briggs and I have _no_ memory of this occasion whatsoever. 0.O I wanted to go back and fix it, but it's so _weird_ to call Falman 'Second Lieutenant' so I'm just going to pretend that this is _totally_ canon. (Sorry Falman, I mean it.)**

 **A small warning that I'll either not be posting next week (or posting just half of a chapter if I can) as I have an important test coming up. I seem to have lots of tests so I apologize in advance. (I feel I should apologize for the _really_ long chapters as well, as I just can't help myself.)**

 **Anyways, we're entering a new stage of the plot, if it wasn't clear yet, and basically I don't see any cheerful scenes in the near future.**

 **Enough with my rambling. Once again, a HUGE HUGE thank you to all of you who have favourited, followed and reviewed! I feel so loved, honestly!**

 **Reply to emmahoshi: Haha~ I know right. But it's _Edward._ Even a dumbo at celebrities like me would know him. Thanks again for your review, I really enjoy reading them! **

**Replies to Guests: Thanks and happy reading~!**

* * *

 _Chapter 8 – Tea Party_

It wasn't the first time Colonel Roy Mustang had pulled a disappearing act on them.

Despite Hawkeye's stern surveillance, their commanding officer had a horrible habit of dropping everything and vanishing from his office whenever his mood swings demanded it – up to the point where their unit was almost notorious for combing East Command and asking after his whereabouts on an almost biweekly basis.

In fact, if not for one of these infamous escapades, Falman would never have met the Flame Alchemist.

Sergeant Vato Falman looked up indifferently as a hand was slammed down on his office desk, rattling the ink bottle next to his arm and causing his pile of neatly organized papers to jump as if in surprise.

Falman nonchalantly reached out a hand and caught the bottle before it could topple off his desk. "Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, if I remember correctly. How may I be of assistance?"

The blonde-haired officer paused in the motion of retorting an order and blinked in surprise, his current expression and half-agape mouth akin to that of a fish. "I – How –" he snapped his mouth shut and frowned. "Have we met?"

"You returned a book on…let's see, I believe it was on the study of combustive gaseous elements – on behalf of State Alchemist Roy Mustang last September." Falman calmly returned his ink bottle to its original position, dipped the tip of his pen in it, and continued to studiously scribble out the report he had been in the midst of writing before being interrupted. "I was the officer on duty."

Havoc stared at the older man in bewilderment and shook his head. "Uh…Cool. So, about that State Alchemist – Lieutenant Colonel Mustang I mean, have you seen him today? He's uh…" Havoc waved a hand as if willing a mental projection of his superior to materialize next to him – which of course, unless Havoc just happened to be a talented alchemist, didn't ensue. "Black hair, sort of dark and brooding, looks like he could use a tan. And about eh, this tall?"

Havoc raised a hand next to his head in mimicry of Mustang's relative height, gave his hand an irritated look, and dropped it a little lower. "No, this tall."

Falman gazed levelly at Havoc. "I know what he looks like – I believe he's at least two centimetres taller than you. And on that note, no, I haven't seen him today."

Havoc slumped in disappointment and groaned loudly, turning around and regarding the mahogany forest of towering bookshelves which formed the core and heart of the National Central Library, the physical housing of the largest collection of knowledge in Amestris – a collection which seemed to spread and grow along the impeccable marble walls with each passing minute.

Hundreds of people, dozens of them State Alchemists, perused the Library every day, and while Havoc couldn't very well take this rather eccentric sergeant's word on Mustang not being here, he wasn't about to comb through _this_ labyrinth of musty books and tomes aisle by aisle either.

"Guess I'll take your word for it." sighed Havoc, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks for your help."

Striding back towards the tall double doors, Falman distinctly heard the soldier muttering beneath his breath: _Now what? The park…?_

Falman flicked his eyes back to his report and went back to work. It was almost laughable really, when Havoc had asked him if he knew Mustang. How was it possible for him, Sergeant Vato Falman – glorified office clerk who managed the restricted branches of the Library accessible only to those who possessed the exalted silver pocketwatch – to _not_ know the youngest State Alchemist in Amestrian history?

Falman would often muse, amongst his almost unbearably dry work, how it must feel like to be famous and _known_. How it must feel like to _not_ be him – unimportant military officer stuck with a minor rank since the past half decade, hidden amongst the dusty manuscripts and archives of the National Library, doomed to fill out forms and track down overdue books for the rest of his days.

The afternoon shift clocked in, and Falman left his desk for lunch.

In the middle of the box-shaped National Central Library was a small courtyard, once-green grass and grey cobblestones now replaced by the thick snow of November. Falman shivered and pulled his fur-trimmed coat a little closer around him as he trudged through the small side door, seating himself down on a stone bench to consume his sandwich in peace.

 _Crunch._

Falman glanced up from his cold turkey bagel in utmost unconcern. "Who's there?"

 _Fwoosh._

A slim figure suddenly emerged behind Falman, having being half-hidden underneath a fresh layer of powdery snow.

He coolly dusted snow off the top of his dark hair and yawned, face pale with the wintry chill. Suddenly realizing that he had an audience, he raised his head and blinked.

Falman stared.

Roy Mustang covered his mouth and sneezed.

* * *

Falman regarded the younger man seated opposite him with stunned amazement, watching as he stirred sugar into the mug of steaming jasmine tea which Falman had robotically offered him.

Technically, this stuffy, cabinet-lined rest area was 'Staff Only', but Falman felt like he could make an exception.

Glittering shards of crystalline sugar slowly dissolved and vanished amidst the swirling pale brown liquid. Mustang clinked his teaspoon against the rim of his mug, set it down, and nonchalantly took a sip – as if being caught dozing in the snow was just part of his daily schedule.

And, in retrospect, it probably was.

Falman nursed his own cup of hot tea. "Someone was here earlier looking for you, eh – sir." he added hurriedly, a glance at the stars on Mustang's shoulders reminding him that this man, young as he was, ranked a good few promotions above him.

"Oh." Mustang winced imperceptibly and set his cup down. "Was it Hawkeye?"

"It was Second Lieutenant Havoc, sir."

Mustang exhaled softly in what sounded suspiciously like relief. "Guess they finally noticed I was missing." he cocked his head at Falman, obsidian eyes gleaming with witty sharpness. "It seems like I forgot to introduce myself. I am –"

"Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang." said Falman automatically, before flinching at his mistake. "I apologize, I didn't mean to be impolite. My name is –"

"Sergeant Vato Falman." continued Mustang smoothly, smirking lazily in a rather cat-like manner.

Falman, who prided himself on his calm composure – a silver owl, feathers remaining tenaciously unruffled through any storm or hurricane – actually jolted upright in surprise.

"You take the morning shifts here, don't you?" said Mustang unperturbedly, raising an eyebrow. "Relax. Is it so strange that I would remember the name of the officer who is usually on duty when I sign in at the Library?"

Falman drew in a breath to reply, but when his lips parted, the words failed to form. What a strange, paradoxical feeling this was – Falman had spent a good portion of his life and military career remembering every last detail of every last person he'd ever met, but no one seemed to pay as much heed to him.

A ghost, an invisible presence. Cursed to forever roam these corridors in silence.

And the sergeant then thought back, a rewinding recorder, to all those times – clear as daylight – when Mustang, still a major in those days, would set down pile after pile of books on Falman's desk along with his State Alchemist watch. Falman often thought that he was a rather distractible young man, keen black eyes always darting rapidly towards the marble etchings on the grand dome above, the labels on the dark oak bookshelves, the readers seated at the warmly lit tables – everywhere _except_ Falman.

But he remembered. He remembered and Falman was astounded.

A knock resounded on the door. Falman turned as the new officer in charge of the afternoon shift appeared in the doorway, flanked by two teetering metal shelves.

The officer blinked once at the unexpected visitor, but to his credit, went straight to business. "Sergeant Falman, the Silver Alchemist wants that book he returned last week – something to do with rare metallic elements. Thing is, he can't remember the title and he still expects me to simply magic it out of thin air."

"I remember it." replied Falman evenly. "It's coded 98273410 and titled 'Rare and Precious Metals in Alchemy'."

The officer made an _okay_ gesture in Falman's general direction and quickly ducked back out of the room, no doubt feeling rather intimidated at dealing with a library full of State Alchemists with notoriously short tempers.

When Falman turned back around, Roy Mustang was observing him with an impressed glint in his eye. "Interesting talent."

"More of a curse, sir. I can even remember every single book that _you_ have ever borrowed from the Library." At a perfectly arched eyebrow from Mustang, Falman kicked himself at putting his statement in such a disturbing context. "I meant that I can remember almost everything I've seen and heard, even things that stretch back several years."

"That does sound rather bothersome." commented Mustang, spooning more sugar into his tea. He tapped a gloved finger on the table, seeming to be contemplating something.

"Sir, what were you doing in the snow?" asked Falman, eager to change the subject but unable to restrain his natural bluntness at conversation.

"Hmm, thinking."

"In the _snow_ , sir?"

"I like lying in the snow. Looking at the sky helps me think." Mustang shrugged. "I must have dozed off."

Falman decided not to press the subject any further.

For a long, unbroken moment, the only sound in the dust-filled room was the slow tapping of a finger on scratched old wood as the colonel took a long, slow draught of his tea.

He set his cup down on the table, its white ceramic base a glimmering mirage beneath the now shallow film of coloured water. Lieutenant Colonel Mustang then looked Falman straight in the eye, and even Falman, steady mountain that he was, nearly started back at the intensity of that gaze.

"Four ranks." said Mustang quietly. "Four ranks if I make colonel."

Falman remained silent – an unspoken question.

"The reason why I'm in Central today, is because the Fuhrer asked to see me." Mustang stirred the remaining insoluble grains of sugar which had coagulated at the bottom of his cup.

"A promotion, sir?"

"Most likely. At least Grumman said so."

"Congratulations."

"Colonel." he echoed, as if deliberately rolling the word around on his tongue, thoroughly tasting each vowel and consonant. "Four more ranks: Brigadier General, Major General, Lieutenant General, General."

He raised his eyes, full of hidden fire and burning purpose.

"Fuhrer." Mustang smiled then – knife-sharp and humourless.

Falman slowly diverted his eyes down to his untouched tea, a serene front concealing a raging turmoil of emotion.

There was nothing wrong with ambition, per say. But one did not go around blatantly announcing such dangerous dreams to a perfect stranger. A fact which Falman was certain the lieutenant colonel was well aware of.

"Isn't that…" Falman said slowly, cautiously. "Treason, sir?"

"Hmm, I don't know." Mustang's smile didn't drop. "What do you think?"

"I think…that it's dangerous to be telling such secrets to a man you hardly know."

"Well, Sergeant Vato Falman, what you asked for, you shall receive." Mustang glanced down forlornly at his empty mug. Falman automatically got up to get him a fresh one.

"Was that why you were in that courtyard, sir?"

Mustang didn't answer as Falman set down his refill in front of him. But the silence was acknowledgement enough.

Falman regarded this man – so young and yet mature beyond his years – and for the briefest of seconds, saw not his superior rank, but something else. A glimpse within.

"It's okay to be afraid."

Mustang, seasoned actor that he was, calmly wrapped slender fingers around the handle of his cup. "I'm not afraid."

Falman remained standing, gazing down at the raven-haired colonel.

How strange – that Falman had barely known him for less than an hour, and yet he was beginning to have the slightest inklings of how exactly the colonel ticked and operated – whilst many people who had known Roy Mustang for years continued to be misled and hoodwinked. All he needed was time. He would say what he needed to eventually.

Mustang sighed deeply, smiling almost sheepishly. "People say I think too much. But thinking three, no, five steps ahead of everyone else has become a necessary nuisance in my line of work. Nearly every day, I pretend to be the people who I most despise – you can't help but think, really, what if the act is so realistic it _becomes_ real?"

"The shell becomes the core." reflected Falman.

"And that makes me hesitate sometimes – I hesitate, and I hate myself for it. The deeper I delve, the higher I climb, the harder it is to differentiate between who I am and who I pretend to be." Mustang glanced up at Falman, the desperateness of the gesture masked by its deceptive laziness. "So, do I continue to plough on and risk losing myself? Or do I stop here and risk losing my country?"

"You're asking me this, sir?" asked Falman in astonishment.

"A second opinion is always welcome." Mustang crossed his legs and sipped his drink. He had an unnerving way of making even the gravest conversations seem like a regular tea party.

"I'm just a glorified librarian who hasn't left the National Central Library in five years." stated Falman neutrally. "I wouldn't even begin to know where to find the answer to your question."

"But that's exactly why," said Mustang. "You've seen people, heard things – and we all know that many secret happenings pass through the Library. I'd say you have more experience than even the most decorated lieutenant."

Falman chuckled softly, but the sound came out more like a cough than a laugh. "If your only worry, sir, is that you'll lose who you originally were, then the most obvious solution would be to keep someone who knows you well close by. Someone who knows who you were before, and someone who can remind you of that person."

Mustang raised his eyebrows. "Such wisdom. Your talents are wasted in this crappy old place, sergeant."

"I would like to say that I agree, but it seems that I'm good for nothing else."

Mustang pulled out his pocketwatch and clicked it open, checking the ticking hands within. "I should get going, or I'll be late for my appointment with Fuhrer Bradley." he stood up with all the grace of a prowling panther and offered Falman his hand. "It was a pleasure to have met your acquaintance, Sergeant Vato Falman."

"Ah, um – it was a pleasure." Falman hesitantly took his hand and shook it, feeling the strangely rough fabric of his glove brush against his palm. "But aren't you concerned, sir?"

Mustang smiled easily and slipped on his heavy winter coat. "Concerned about what?"

"What you've told me today, sir. It can easily be used against you." Falman said analytically. "Even your clandestine ambition alone can get me a promotion if I ratted you out to one of your rivals."

"Well, Sergeant Falman. I like to think of myself as a general good judge of character. Besides, you seem like a smart man." Falman blinked, and the colonel's smile had changed – morphed – into something colder, deadlier, almost feral.

His voice was suddenly low and laced with the undertones of danger.

"Trust me when I say that I'm the _last_ man you would want as your enemy."

Falman blinked a second time, and the icy glimmer in Mustang's dark eyes was gone, replaced by his customary countenance of cool indifference. "And I wasn't joking when I said your talents are wasted here. What you need, sergeant, _is_ a good promotion."

With a slight tip of his head and a grand billowing of black fabric, the colonel was gone.

Falman sat there, alone and unaccompanied save by his thoughts. He clenched his fingers around his now cold cup of tea.

His hands were shaking.

Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang was indeed an interesting character.

 _Ah, that was terrifying._

* * *

It was late, and ridiculously so.

Warrant Officer Vato Falman entered the room quietly, a silver spirit, silent and soundless, his heavy military boots making barely a squeak on the polished wooden floor.

Had some strange instinct brought them here, to Edward and Alphonse's room, converging like birds before the storm? Or perhaps the hurricane had already passed, and this was merely the unbearable calm after, as they huddled and clustered, counting their losses.

 _One…Two…Three…_

The door to the colonel's suite remained firmly shut, and Falman's eyes darted back and forth along the walls, but this room held no clock.

Instead, he pulled back the sleeve of his military jacket – ah, he hadn't changed out of his uniform since that morning – and it took his tired mind a few moments to register the drowsily ticking hands.

One in the morning.

Falman and Fuery had been urgently called back from their final sweep of the post office at roughly eight, arriving at the hotel barely fifteen minutes later.

Five hours.

Five hours and anything could have happened in that impossibly long stretch of time.

Fuery stumbled in after Falman several minutes later, looking uncharacteristically dishevelled and dazed. He didn't bother to be quiet in the shutting of the door, and those already gathered in the small living area looked up.

There was an extended moment of dead silence as all eyes alighted on the warrant officer and their tech expert. As if no one quite knew what to say.

Breda was the first to speak, tense hands resting on folded knees as he sat a little straighter. "Any luck?"

Falman hesitated, then shook his head slowly. If possible, the already dead atmosphere withered even further. "I asked around for the attendant who directed Edward to the phone. Apparently he disappeared before his shift was even over, so it's possible that he was in on the entire ploy. I'm still waiting for his documents to be brought to me by the management staff." the warrant officer paused then.

It was almost laughable, if anyone could still laugh amidst such dire circumstances, how there didn't exist a written protocol for a situation such as theirs. Even during their frantic search for fresh clues and tracks, it seemed that all they did was exercise their military authority – ordering the hotel employees to tell them what they'd seen, scanning the streets and stopping random pedestrians to ask questions as they tried to piece together the occurrences of that night.

Laughable, how no one except them knew the colonel was missing – for how could they disclose this piece of information which was so foreign and unknown to even them? Or perhaps they were simply lying to themselves, refusing to look reality in the eye, thinking that maybe, _maybe_ things weren't as bad as they seemed.

Falman reflexively glanced towards the adjacent door, almost expecting Mustang to suddenly waltz in and announce that he'd wandered off to some random bar down the street (it wouldn't be the first time) and – _sheesh, I can take care of myself, what are you people working yourselves into such a frenzy over?_

"What about Rourke?" Havoc turned around from where he'd been pacing in front of the window, the extinguished cigarette in his mouth chewed to tatters. "He lured Hawkeye away to the slums. And quite frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if he masterminded the whole thing."

Fuery jolted nervously. "Oh Havoc, it's insubordination to assume such things about a general."

"Do I look like I care?" Havoc snapped back heatedly.

Falman blinked in astonishment as Fuery started at Havoc's angered tone, his expression downcast. Before the Elrics came along, Fuery was basically the kid of the team – Falman couldn't remember the last time _any_ of them had snapped at him.

Havoc turned to face the window again, mumbling an apology as his haggard reflection stared back at him from the darkness.

"General Rourke has nothing to do with this." said Hawkeye softly. The effect of her voice on the room, as small and faded as it may be, was astounding. Everyone froze and glanced almost fearfully towards her. "His shock when we found out that the message was fake, at least, was genuine."

"Or he could just be a very good actor." muttered Havoc, back still turned.

Hawkeye smiled humourlessly, a strange expression on an otherwise blank face. "Good, but not the best. Trust me, Rourke doesn't know. Besides, he's the type of person who wouldn't do anything that has no benefit to him. He has more to gain from keeping the colonel here."

"The person who sent him that message, then?" mused Breda. "How many people are even _involved_ at this point?"

Their quiet discussion was abruptly interrupted by the thunderous slamming of the door against the wall, the booming sound a razor sharp dagger to their silence-conditioned ears.

The room hushed a second time.

A slender silhouette stood in the doorway, heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The dim lights of the hallway glinted ethereally on long hair like spun gold.

"Where is he?" Edward Elric asked bluntly.

Falman automatically moved to answer, but the words died in his throat. Because they didn't know. They honestly _didn't know_ and that was the scariest part of the whole thing.

Funny. For throughout the past year alone, their colonel, their leader and commander, had been shot at, stabbed, nearly alchemically imploded, chased after by a ravenous Homunculus and almost devoured, used in some wacked out ritual to destroy the world – and fundamentally had been through more or less every last crap situation known to mankind. Falman thought that they were used to it by now, that they knew exactly what to do – which was the best way to keep him alive.

But it turns out that all it took was a simple disappearance – a simple, _snap!_ , _dematerialization_ – for their once-impregnable team to fall into disarray.

Cut off the head of the lion, and you kill the lion itself.

"Brother!" hasty footsteps pounded outside the door, and Alphonse appeared behind Edward. "Brother, you can't just barge out of the clinic like that! The doctor said you need stitches."

"I'm fine." said Edward shortly, stepping into the light. His face was drawn and pale, from blood loss or from something else Falman didn't know, and a thick swathe of bandage was wrapped around his forehead.

He was angry, _intensely_ angry – Falman could tell by the way he was glaring at the opposite wall. All he needed was an outlet to channel that rage, and there would be hell to pay.

Those burning golden eyes suddenly swivelled, boring into Falman, an unspoken question. Falman, though his expression remained unchanged, took a wary step backwards.

"We don't know." he said, voice low and barely audible.

Ed's eyebrows drew together at Falman's response, and he shook his head irately. "This is all Rourke's fault, isn't it? I'm going to get a straight answer out of that son of a bitch _right now_."

Edward whirled, only for his way to be obstructed by Al. "Brother." Al's molten eyes were pleading – how was it possible for the Elrics' irises to be the exact same shade, and yet reveal completely contrasting emotions? "Brother, _please_. This isn't working."

"It's not Rourke." said Hawkeye, and her calm voice affected Ed as much – even more – than it had affected the rest of them.

Edward's shoulders tensed, and Falman watched them rise, then slump listlessly. The Fullmetal Alchemist turned around, his head lowered, hanging golden strands casting his face in violet-blue shadow. He wasn't wearing his braid, and his loose hair made him seem like a new and foreign object.

Silence, then:

"I'm sorry."

Hawkeye's gaze didn't waver. Considering the circumstances, she was probably the calmest out of all of them. "You don't have to apologize."

"But I should have _known_ that the phone call was a scam. If I hadn't – if I hadn't left…" Ed trailed off. His fists clenched.

"It's not your fault." repeated Hawkeye, tone definite, face gentle.

Edward raised his eyes, and the perpetual fire in them had dimmed somewhat. "We have to find him."

Falman didn't miss the alluded ' _Or I'll never forgive myself_ '.

"Will the police help?" asked Alphonse, shutting the door.

"A person isn't considered officially missing until after twenty four hours." answered Breda solemnly. "We can't count on the locals anyway – there's a bit of an aversion towards the military around these parts, even though Sersa wasn't directly involved in the war."

"I could radio East City for extra people to help us look." offered Fuery. "It'll have to wait till morning though, as I can only broadcast long distance messages via the local radio station."

"For now, our only definite lead is Leonardo Blake. Witness reports state that he was last seen leaving the hotel with the colonel." Falman cocked his head as he thought, mind automatically organizing and reprioritizing information. "He said he worked in East City, right? Maybe Eastern Command can pull something up on him."

"Who knows? His medical certification could easily be forged." Edward growled softly. "Shit, I can't believe I actually _trusted_ him."

"It's too early to jump to conclusions." voiced Hawkeye. "Not with such limited information."

"Motive? Motive is always important." Fuery piped up anxiously.

" _They_ – whoever they are – went to too much trouble for this to be for something as simple as a ransom demand." concluded Breda.

"But you think…you think he's still alive?" Edward's voice was like ice.

And finally, the dreaded question. If anything, Falman certainly found new respect in Ed's audacity.

There was a pause as Breda inhaled shakily. "I believe that, and will _keep on_ believing that, unless proven otherwise."

Edward looked away, face pained.

"But if assassination was the end goal, and if Blake is one of them, he had plenty of opportunities to strike throughout the entire _day_." observed Falman logically. "All he needed was a gun or something sharp. Poison could easily do the job as well."

Edward winced. "Falman. Not helping."

"Could it be…revenge?" Al's voice was so impossibly soft that if not for the deep silence of the darkest hour, it would have been brushed off as a mere whisper of the wind.

Everyone visibly froze. Hawkeye tensed, unknown emotion flickering in amber eyes.

Incredible how the Elric brothers, as shrewd as ever, were hitting every single topic the men had been skirting around like hot coals since Mustang had disappeared.

No one moved to answer. No one even wanted to _think_ about it.

"Well, we can't be sitting around here." said Edward resolutely, breaking the silence. "Not when we can be out there searching."

"But where?" asked Havoc, lighting another cigarette. Falman had lost count after around the sixth one that night. "It's useless, Ed. We don't even know where to start looking – or if he's still _in_ Sersa for that matter."

Edward made a frustrated noise that was between a snarl and a growl and started pacing, Al trying to get him to sit down before his concussion got worse. "But we can't just do _nothing._ "

Falman flexed his fingers, thinking. "Fuery, let's go." he nodded to the younger sergeant. "There should still be someone working the night shift at the police station. I think I know how to locate that missing waiter."

Yes, they couldn't just do _nothing._

Havoc and Breda exchanged glances. Breda stood, his jaw set with stubborn decisiveness. "There won't be any shops open this late, but we have to start somewhere."

Hawkeye stared up at all of them, and the blank look in her eyes made Falman's chest ache. He averted his gaze, trying not to think about what she'd nearly done the _last_ time something bad had happened to Mustang.

She didn't say anything. Falman turned and reached for the doorknob.

 _Riiiing._

The silver-haired warrant officer jolted in surprise as if the metal had electrocuted him.

The air felt frozen. They were waiting…for what?

 _Riiiing._

There it was again. Shrill and muffled at the same time.

Fuery glanced around in confusion. "Is that…a phone?"

"But we unplugged ours." said Alphonse in bewilderment. "And it doesn't sound like it's coming from this room anyway."

 _Riiiing._

Edward suddenly jerked up, like a marionette with its strings pulled taunt, golden eyes wide and searching. "The…the other room."

And before anyone could register what he meant, Ed broke into a mad rush, pulling open the door and charging into the colonel's now-empty suite.

There was a moment of stunned stillness before everyone suddenly sprung to life, like rigid marble statues touched by magic.

 _Riiiing._

Falman emerged in the room just in time to see Edward staring at the black plastic form of the telephone sitting placidly on the side table with such apprehension Falman almost expected it to grow fangs and attack them.

Edward breathed in deeply and placed his hand on the phone.

He paused as another hand, palm calloused but touch tender, covered his knuckles.

Ed looked up at Hawkeye. Her sherry eyes were serene and still – twin lakes of crystalline amber.

She shook her head, once. Edward bit his lip and withdrew his hand.

 _Riiing._

Hawkeye calmly lifted the phone from its housing.

"Hello?"

* * *

He was drifting, drowning, sinking.

Snatches of light and sound hovered just beyond the edges of his consciousness, darting elusively out of reach every time he tried to touch them. He could no longer tell the difference between memory and reality.

Snippets of muffled conversation. The soft growl of an engine.

 _Excuse me miss, is this the Hawkeye residence?_

The pungent smell of grease. Metallic rust.

 _You're finally a State Alchemist? Congratulations, Roy._

 _Sir, it'll be an honour to serve under you._

Light and colour. He'd almost forgotten what they looked like.

 _You're a colonel now? Who the hell was stupid enough to promote you? Wait – WHO ARE YOU CALLING SHORT!?_

Burning things. The smell of the desert.

 _Please Roy, you have to wake up._

Roy's eyes cracked open.

He was awake, he knew, because things were suddenly clearer. It was silent, and eerily so, but he could still hear the muffled sounds of night – the rustle of the wind, the distant chirping of nocturnal insects.

His side was pressed against something cold and metallic. Was he still in the van?

Roy moaned softly and shifted, but even that small motion was restrained and sent a sharp pain through his wrists. He struggled to move his hands, only to find them tightly bound with rough rope. The same had been done to his ankles.

Trussed up like a dead bird.

His brain still felt half-submerged and waterlogged, and Roy closed his eyes. His head was pounding – _what the hell happened?_

He reopened them as a sudden thought emerged through the murky depths of his mind.

They weren't moving.

There was the muffled slam of a car door and footsteps. The walls of the van were probably quite thin, as Roy could overhear soft murmurs of urgent conversation if he strained hard enough.

"What the fuck."

"Shush, Evan. Watch your language." Blake's voice. _Definitely_ Blake.

"You're not the boss of me, old man."

There was a barely audible sigh and the crunch of boots on dirt. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure." A third voice, this one also unfamiliar. "The engine's dead."

"Then we have no choice. I'll go get a mechanic."

"Ahem, perhaps you've forgotten what 'cargo' we're currently carrying."

"We can risk it. No one will check the back."

Footsteps sounded again, away from the van this time.

Roy groaned as he struggled to maintain his purchase on the present. The drugs in his system were beginning to claw at his consciousness again, and he felt himself sinking as if he were trapped in quicksand.

There was a _click_ and the squeal of hinges as the back of the van opened.

"Oh, you're awake again. You're certainly hardier than we first thought."

Roy felt like he ought to respond, but the witty insults section of his brain wasn't working as well as usual.

"Use the chloroform." a voice called from outside the van – the unnamed one. They were probably either far from town or in some deserted area if they were being _that_ blatant about their unwilling captive.

"Hmph, I wanted to use my dad's needles, but I guess we can't have you dead too soon." _Clonk, clonk, clonk._ Heavy boots on rigid metal.

The one Blake called 'Evan' crouched, and Roy felt a piece of cloth being pressed to his mouth.

All he could register was the overpowering scent of chemicals. He didn't even have the strength to struggle, and merely shut his eyes, succumbing to the comforting embrace of darkness.

Evan's voice echoed from somewhere far above him, resounding down this endless black tunnel. "Don't worry. The fun's just beginning."

Roy slumped, and silence descended.

This time, the voices of his memories were subdued and faint. Roy ignored them – it often hurt to look back at the past, and really, how would reminiscing help him now?

He wasn't sure how long he remained unconscious.

The next time he came to, it was because of the biting cold.

Roy jerked awake, blinking blearily as he fought to catch his bearings. He had been dreaming – dreaming of rain and drowning.

He wasn't in the vehicle anymore, that much he could tell for certain. For one, he was sitting upright, his back pressed to a rough wall. His hands were secured to a point above his head, and when Roy wriggled his wrists experimentally, cold metal bit into bare skin. Heavy chains rattled.

His clothes were drenched, as if he'd just taken an impromptu dip in the river, or someone had thrown water over him.

There was a low chuckle as plastic was set down on stone. Roy tried to shake his wet hair out of his face – he was absolutely _soaking_. "Well, _that_ woke you. Shall we?"

Leonardo Blake spoke next. Roy would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Colonel, would you be so kind as to tell us the phone number to your hotel room?"

* * *

"Hello?"

Edward flinched back at that single word, quietly spoken but quivering with suppressed emotion.

Hawkeye was staring straight ahead, and the force of her gaze could have bored a hole through the adjacent wallpaper.

Everyone crowded a little closer. For a long moment, all they could hear was static.

"Hello?" Hawkeye repeated.

A soft laugh filtered through the buzzing receiver. Edward felt his hackles rise and his fists clench. He _recognized_ that voice.

The guy who'd smashed a vase over his head. Oh, Edward was not about to let _that_ one go anytime soon.

"Who is this?" asked Hawkeye evenly.

"My name doesn't matter." said the voice, strangely young and callously cool. "But I would very much like to know who am _I_ speaking to."

"I am First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye." answered Hawkeye robotically.

"Ah, the lady lieutenant. You seem like the sensible sort, so I trust we won't have a problem in making a deal?"

Ed and Al exchanged glances.

Hawkeye's voice didn't waver. "It depends on what deal we're talking about."

"Mm, the cool and indifferent type, I see. I hope you still care about your precious colonel though, because we have him right here."

Even alchemy couldn't achieve the impressive effect of those words. Edward started and stared at Alphonse. Breda widened his eyes. Havoc dropped his cigarette. Fuery let loose a small squeal of surprise. Falman frowned.

Hawkeye simply gazed straight ahead. "I'm listening."

"Good. What we seek is very simple. In exchange for his life, we want the liberation of Ishval. In franker terms, we _demand_ Amestris to grant independence to Ishval."

For the very first time that night, Hawkeye's composed expression dropped and she inhaled sharply. "Independence?"

Behind her, Havoc mouthed a silent question to Breda, who shook his head.

"Listen carefully, Miss Lieutenant – here's how it's going to work. The Fuhrer is going to make a nationwide broadcast regarding the official withdrawal of Amestrian power from Ishval _tomorrow_ , or the Flame Alchemist dies. We have a radio here, and will be tuning in to one of the channels, so don't even _think_ about trying to mislead us."

Hawkeye's lips tightened imperceptibly. "That's too little time. Four days."

"You drive a hard bargain. Are you sure you're in a position to be making demands here?"

"Central is halfway across Amestris from our current location. We need more time."

There was a pause and murmurs of conversation in the scratchy background.

Reception was bad. Edward leaned in closer – where the heck was that call coming from?

Finally, the voice crackled over the receiver again. "Two days."

"Three." said Hawkeye resolutely.

That low chuckle again. "You _are_ tough."

"Three days." repeated Hawkeye. "Three days and I can assure you that we'll get you what you want, as long as Colonel Mustang remains unharmed."

"Alive I can guarantee." drawled the voice. "Unharmed…well – it depends on your definition of that particular word."

Edward lunged for the phone. "Don't. You. _Dare._ " He snarled into the receiver.

"Whoa ho, is that the kid I knocked out a few hours ago? I was worried I'd killed you."

Ed inhaled majestically, about to burst into the mother of all cusses when Hawkeye efficiently snatched the phone away from his hands.

"I want proof." she said quietly.

Everyone went silent.

The line buzzed. "Proof of what?"

"I need to know that he's alive." Hawkeye's voice was completely calm, _too_ calm. Edward found his eyes drawn to her upright figure. Unmoving – _frozen_ – she could almost be a framed picture on the mantelpiece. "I want to speak to him."

 _Static._

Edward found himself holding his breath.

The telltale _click_ of a hammer being cocked, and –

 _BANG!_

A strangled gasp in a familiar voice sliced through the silence from the other end of the line. The room erupted into a brief burst of chaos as Edward lurched forward. "What did you do!?"

"Don't worry, it's nothing too serious. Your colonel isn't going to die of a measly leg wound. But as I mentioned before –" the voice was still playful – almost good-humoured, and yet it sent a shaking chill up Edward's spine. " _None_ of you are in a position to be making demands here."

Hawkeye shut her eyes and breathed in slowly, clutching the phone with both hands as if it were her only lifeline in a tumultuous sea.

"I want to speak to him." she repeated.

"Let her." came a second voice from the background, also a familiar one.

Edward balled his hands into fists. _Blake._

Traitor.

But no, how could you betray someone if you were never on their side in the first place?

There was an indignant ' _tch_ ' and some soft rustling whilst the phone was moved.

A pause, before another voice filtered through the receiver, breathy with barely repressed agony: "Lieutenant?"

Edward had to clutch the edge of the table to brace himself as he heaved a soundless sigh of relief, some of the heavy tension and fear of the unknown lifting from his chest. Because he was alive alive _alive_ and Ed could work with that.

"Sir." replied Hawkeye, and that one word said it all. She slumped, a lifeless sculpture no more.

Mustang coughed, but kept his voice impossibly even. "Lieutenant, is Edward there?"

Hawkeye glanced at Ed. "Yes, he is."

"Do you mind if I say a few words to him?"

Hawkeye stretched out her hand and offered the phone to Edward. Her fingers slackened even as he reached for it, and Ed nearly dropped the receiver.

He put it to his ear. What would he say? What _should_ be said in such a situation?

Edward licked his chapped lips and went for the first thing that came to mind.

"I – I'm here."

"Fullmetal." said Mustang, and it was so _like_ him – that tone he used when Ed and Al had just returned from destroying yet another city, and Mustang was thoroughly annoyed and just slightly relieved that they were still in one piece at the same time. "Are you alright?"

Edward tried for a snort. It didn't come out quite right, but Mustang probably couldn't tell the difference over the awful reception. "Worry about yourself first, Colonel Bastard."

"Shut up and answer the question, Fullmetal."

Edward took a breath and said in a remarkably aggravated tone: "I'm fine."

There was a quiet sigh from the other end of the line before Mustang's voice resumed. "Fullmetal, I just remembered – Miss Rockbell once asked me for advice regarding automail alloys for high durability. Would you mind passing this list to her? _Dubnium, Thallium, Fermium_ and _Ruthenium._ I'm sure she'll be ecstatic to hear about it."

"Uh?" asked Edward, because the _last_ thing an abducted person should be droning on about is _automail alloys._

"Oh, and remind Hawkeye to pick up her groceries. She should really get about it earlier, or she won't be able to make it back in time for breakfast." continued Mustang casually, as if they were just conversing about the weather. And in a way, they _were._

"Wha –" snapped Edward with rising frustration, but he couldn't even finish his sentence before the colonel was cut off.

A rustle of static, and the cool, young voice was back. "Satisfied?"

Ed clenched his jaw. "If you so much as lay a _finger_ –"

"You'll do what, pray tell?" taunted the voice. "Last I checked, I'm the one holding the loaded gun here."

Edward's mouth snapped shut, and he bit the inside of his cheek till it bled.

"Just get us what we need, and there won't be a problem, understood?" a soft smirk. "Tally ho, _runt._ "

Every last ounce of Ed's hard won self-control instantly dissipated. "DID YOU JUST CALL ME –"

 _Click._

The line went dead.

Edward stared at the receiver for a full second before slamming it back into its housing.

 _Dubnium, Thallium, Fermium_ and _Ruthenium._

If there was one thing Edward had learnt after four years of being acquainted with the colonel, it was that Roy Mustang never said or did anything without a reason. It had to be some sort of code.

It _had_ to be.

"Al, Al! Get me a sheet of paper!" At his brother's frantic request, Alphonse immediately unfroze and leapt back to life. In two seconds flat, both Elric brothers were rummaging around in the drawers for a notepad.

"You think it's some sort of secret message?" asked Havoc, hovering over the Elrics as Alphonse victoriously produced a piece of paper and a pen from one of the cupboards.

Edward glanced back at Hawkeye. "Oh, and Mustang asked me to tell you to pick up the groceries – or something like that. Does that mean anything to you?"

"I heard what he said." Hawkeye sat down on the couch, amber eyes deep in thought. "Groceries…Late for breakfast…"

"He addressed it to you, Hawkeye. So my money's on it being a message only _you_ could decipher." urged Breda.

"I'm not…" started Hawkeye uncertainly. It was rare for the ever-composed lieutenant to be unsure about anything. "He could mean… When we were kids, barely teenagers, Roy – I mean, Colonel Mustang – took me out to buy groceries once. It was an hour's walk to the grocery store in the next town, so he 'borrowed' my father's old pickup and offered to drive me. I didn't know that he didn't even have a license then. I remember this clearly because the car broke down halfway through, and we spent the whole morning trying to fix it ourselves as my father would be absolutely furious if he found out. We _were_ very late for breakfast that day…"

Hawkeye paused in contemplation. "Does he mean that the kidnappers were so late in calling us because they had car issues?"

"That…could be plausible." said Breda, hardly able to contain the sharp glint in his eyes. At this point, they were basically grasping at straws now, but even straws were better than plain nothing. "We could start by checking out all the automobile repair shops around Sersa. It could offer us a lead if they weren't able to fix their ride themselves."

"What about Edward's message?" pointed out Falman.

In the meantime, Ed was scribbling furiously on paper, writing down possible interpretations and meanings as he mulled over the four elements.

 _Dubnium, Thallium, Fermium_ and _Ruthenium._

"Dubnium and Ruthenium are Transition Metals, and Thallium is a Basic Metal. But _Fermium_ is a radioactive Actinoid and a Rare Earth element, and obviously wouldn't be used in making an alloy. What am I missing here, Al?" Ed turned to his brother, rapidly tapping his pen on the table as he did so.

"Did you try valence electrons? Um, atomic mass?" suggested Alphonse.

"Valence of Thallium is three…" Edward stopped in midsentence as a hand was laid on his shoulder.

Hawkeye gazed down at him. "Remember, Edward. The colonel probably didn't have time to come up with an elaborate code using the periodic table. Think simple."

"Simple?" Edward crossed out his previous notes and regarded the four names he'd scrawled over the top of the page. Hawkeye was right, he _did_ have a penchant for overthinking things. "What if…"

No, it can't be _that_ simple, could it?

Edward crossed out the ' _ium_ ' from each element and frowned at the new words they formed.

 _Dubn, Thall, Ferm, Ruthe_

" _Dubn Thall Ferm Ruthe_." intoned Edward aloud, as if chanting some archaic spell. "No, that doesn't make sense either."

"Hold on, Ed. Could you say that again, but faster?" asked Fuery, eyes round with excitement.

" _Dubn Thall Ferm Ruthe_." repeated Ed, more quickly this time as he stumbled over the syllabus.

Al widened his eyes. "Fuery, you're a genius! ' _Dubn Thall_ ' sounds like ' _Don't Tell_.'"

"Don't tell what?" questioned Edward insistently. "What the hell is ' _Ferm Ruthe_ '?"

"It's not a 'what'." said Falman silently. "It's a ' _who_ '."

All eyes turned to stare at him.

Falman cleared his throat, uncomfortable at being subjected to such blatant scrutinization. "I mean, isn't it obvious?"

"No." said Havoc most sarcastically. "It isn't."

" _Ferm Ruthe – Fer Ruh._ " Falman nodded solemnly. " _Fuhrer_."

Edward swivelled to stare at the haphazardly scrawled message.

" _Don't tell the Fuhrer?"_

* * *

Well, this was turning out to be a pretty crap week.

Roy smiled wryly to himself as he suppressed a shiver. He was still soaking wet, and wherever he was, it definitely didn't come equipped with a frickin' heater.

Wincing as the newly formed bullet hole in his thigh sent a red hot stab of pain through his nerves, Roy shifted his bound legs until his knees were pressed against his chest. If anything, it'll help conserve body heat.

" _Ouch._ " he muttered softly, almost as an afterthought.

"Uhm, excuse me, sir?"

Roy jolted upright so fast at the sudden voice that the skin on his wrists tore from the friction with his shackles.

Wincing again, he turned towards this new voice – female, young and timid, hesitant but unafraid. He had been so distracted he hadn't heard her approaching footsteps.

"I didn't mean to startle you. Sir – or mister?" said the unknown girl hastily. No, Roy had definitely heard her voice somewhere before, but he just couldn't recall. "It's just…You're bleeding and I brought bandages."

Roy blinked. "Oh, um. Thank you?"

Really, this day just kept getting stranger and stranger.

At least his trip to Sersa wouldn't be boring.

Roy gradually stretched out his injured leg, face contorting in pain as he did so. He could feel slight hands, touch as gentle as a fairy's, slipping a thick piece of gauze underneath his thigh.

He flinched as he felt the sting of antiseptic, and the wound was efficiently dressed and secured.

"You're really good at this." Roy commented.

"Thank you." answered the girl, tone bashful. "My Papa taught me – oh." she paused awkwardly. "I'm not supposed to mention him."

 _My son and daughter both reside in East City._

Roy frowned thoughtfully at this new titbit of information. If Blake was telling the truth, and Roy had already guessed that Evan, the young man who had spoken to Edward and Hawkeye, was his son…

Then this was his daughter?

"It's okay." said Roy soothingly, his tone that of a little boy approaching a shy kitten. "Is your 'Papa' Dr. Blake?"

There was a long moment of silence.

"You know that I can't see you nodding your head, right?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl in embarrassment. I'm –"

"You don't need to apologize." Roy smoothly swept in. "What's your name?"

The young girl fell into uncertain silence.

"Don't worry, I won't bite." joked Roy teasingly. "You know what, how about I start? Hello there, my name is Roy."

The girl giggled shyly. "I'm – I'm Asther."

"That's a very pretty name." Roy cocked his head. "Have we met before, Asther?"

"I…We did. Many times. Though you probably wouldn't have noticed – Papa says it's important that I'm not noticed." Roy could hear the beginnings of a smile in Asther Blake's voice. "But I _did_ sell you a basketful of apples once."

Roy raised his eyebrows. " _Ah._ "

"I don't _actually_ sell apples in my spare time, but Papa told me to stall you for a bit."

"I see." Roy thought furiously. The entire plot was finally beginning to emerge. "Well, Asther. The apples _were_ really delicious."

Asther giggled again, and the light-hearted sound reminded Roy painfully of Elicia. He hadn't been to see Maes's little daughter since the Promised Day.

He quietly vowed to drop by the Hugheses' apartment when he got back. _If_ he got back.

Asther had once again descended into silence, though this time, the stillness was less uncertain and more…fearful.

"Mr. Roy, could I ask you a question?" her voice was strangely solemn now – the little girl all grown up.

Roy moved into a more comfortable position – if being held prisoner could be considered comfortable. "Ask away."

"Did you…Did you kill my mother?"

Roy instantly froze.

The night was still – unbearably still. Insects were buzzing and chirping on an open windowsill somewhere, and the wind moaned its chilling anguish.

 _Sometimes I look at them and feel rather proud of myself for raising such wonderful children – my wife passed on some years back, you see._

Another pair of siblings. Brothers which shone like the sun.

Dead eyes and a dry voice. A scrawny boy too small for his wheelchair. _We just wanted our mother back._

"Brother…Brother says you did." continued Asther softly. "But you don't seem like a bad person, Mr. Roy. I – I'm not sure if I believe him."

Roy let his head drop. "Asther…When did your mother die? _How_ did she die?"

Asther took a breath as if to answer, before another voice interrupted her.

"Asther, why are you still up? It's past your bedtime."

There was a rustle of clothing as Asther swivelled. "But Papa, I'm _eight_ this year. Eight! I don't have to sleep early." she intoned in indignation.

"Oh, yes you do, young lady. Now off with you." scolded Blake sternly.

Asther grumbled incoherently before bending down to scoop up her medical supplies. "I'll come to see you tomorrow, Mr. Roy." she whispered conspiratorially, and with a quick goodnight, scampered off like a rabbit.

Roy listened to the fading sound of her pattering feet, feeling horribly, horribly empty inside.

Blake didn't move away. He just stood there, still and unmoving – the only indication of his presence being that Roy hadn't heard him walk away.

"It was a mistake to leave you alone. I'll get someone posted here to keep an eye on you." Blake paused, and his voice was once again frigid – so unlike the Dr. Blake of their very first meeting. "Stay away from my daughter."

"Lovely." commented Roy coolly. _This_ he could handle. Putting on his mask and acting as if the world could do nothing else to crush him was familiar territory. "You have quite the tea party set up here, Dr. Blake. The entire family all in one place."

Blake simply snorted, unaffected by the jibe. "You're very calm for a man who may die in the next three days, colonel."

"What can I say? Calm is my middle name." Roy leaned forward, and despite his casual tone, every last muscle in his body was stretched taut. "Would you mind enlightening me on a problem I've been mulling over, Dr. Blake? Was everything you said a lie? Or was there some truth behind your words?"

Blake chuckled, a cold, unyielding sound. "I never lied to you, Colonel Mustang. My name _is_ Dr. Leonardo Blake, and I _am_ an accredited ophthalmologist from East City. Everything I told you, except for why I was able to warn your men about the attack on the street, was absolutely true."

"And the attack? That was your idea as well?"

"The attack served two purposes: one, to gain your trust, and the trust of the Elrics, so that you'll at least feel comfortable enough to be left alone with me. Two, to lure away your subordinates – for while they were busy investigating this external threat to their superior, they failed to notice the real danger lurking close by." explained Blake evenly. "Don't worry. I made sure to use rubber bullets instead of real ones. I once took an oath to take not a human life – I am, after all, a doctor."

"That sounds very comforting." replied Roy, tone dripping with sarcasm. "I have one final question for you, Dr. Leonardo Blake: Is this whole ploy _really_ for the good of Ishval, or is this just your twisted idea of revenge?"

Blake laughed, but it felt forced, and not at all amused. "Everything I do _is_ for Ishval, colonel! After being trodden down underfoot by your military like mere _insects_ , it is as clear as daylight that the golden lands of Ishval and its people will never recover as long as it is still underneath the oppression of Amestris. I want freedom for my people, freedom for my home! What, pray tell, is so wrong about that?"

"Everything about your method." said Roy quietly. "Is wrong."

"Says the Flame Alchemist. You have no right to be preaching to me, Colonel Roy Mustang, not when the blood on your hands exceeds mine by hundreds of lives. Tell me, do you remember the Ishvalan district Guran?" Blake's voice was low, an echo – a whisper. "Or perhaps you know it better as District Number 27."

Roy inhaled sharply. Images of flames and death burned behind his eyelids.

"You _do_ remember." observed Blake cynically.

"Of course I remember." muttered Roy. "I remember every last one of them."

"I didn't lie when I told you I'm not of full Ishvalan descent. That was how I avoided the earlier purges. But my wife – Serenei was a full blood." Blake's voice rose angrily in pitch. "And for that one simple reason, _you_ murdered her. She burned, and my children watched."

Roy swallowed, suddenly breathless. His fists clenched, fingernails digging into the raw flesh of his palms.

"It was not my decision to make." he murmured.

"We all have a choice, colonel. Always."

Roy breathed in slowly, composing himself even as the fire threatened to engulf him once more. "And _you_ chose to bring your children into this. Was that wise, Dr. Blake?"

Blake's change of tone was immense. If he was angry then, he was furious now. "You have no right, to be speaking to me about such things. What I do, I do for _them_ – a brighter future for my children."

"You're right." remarked Mustang. "I'm not a father. But one thing I _do_ know – is that you never leave the people you care about in harm's way. Isn't that what you're doing now, Dr. Blake?"

Roy smiled. He was surprised at how easily it came to him. "That's right. I have no family, which means that there's no one back home waiting for me. There's no one to mourn me if I die. Death – in retrospect – has become more of a vague idea to me, a necessity, rather than a terrifying fear. In short, I have nothing to lose. But you, your children, _Ishval_? They have _everything_ to lose. What you're doing here could spark another civil war at worse, an uprising from both sides at best. And what if Ishval _does_ gain its independence? A nation ravaged by war and without its own natural resources is easy meat for some other powerful foreign country." Roy's sightless eyes hardened. "This road is one that'll only lead to disaster."

"And there we go, that famed silver tongue." noted Blake without much concern. "But as the saying goes, colonel: the die has been cast."

He whirled in a swish of silken clothes. "One way or another, I _will_ see this to the end."

Roy leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes wearily as Blake departed. Of course, why _would_ an Ishvalan listen to him?

He cracked open one eye as he twisted his wrists experimentally. It was painful, and slightly awkward, but he could still kind of touch his palms together if he strained.

Roy was grateful that he'd decided to keep the general public in the dark regarding his brand new ability of performing 'clap' alchemy.

He smirked to himself.

It was generally thought that the Flame Alchemist was completely useless without his gloves or when thoroughly wet.

A common misconception.

* * *

 **Note:**

 **Asther first makes her appearance in Chapter 6 (which seems like a while ago so there's a reminder).**


	9. Interlude - Demons

**Author's Note:**

 _ **Flame in the Dark**_ **has been a multitude of firsts for me: My first fanfiction; my first time posting online (or at least, have been serious about it); my first ever** _f**k, son-of-a-b**ch, bastard, crap_ **etc. (both in real life and in writing), and ahem, we all know who's to blame for that, Edward... *eyebrow raise***

 **And here comes another first-time-thing. I've never in my life, tried to tackle this subject matter before, and this story just provided me a unique opportunity to do so.**

 **As mentioned last week, because of a language test (which is finally over so... _ugh..._ ), I didn't have time to write a full chapter. So instead of posting half of chapter 9 (which would just slow down the plot momentum), and since last Thursday was _R U OK? Day,_ I decided to do a one-shot. This section of the story isn't directly related to the plot, but was supposed to be included in chapter 10. As I decided to make it sort of a stand-alone, I lengthened it a bit. **

**'Demons' (which has nothing to do with the song _Demons_ by the way XD) was written in accordance with _R U OK? Day,_ which is ****an annual day in September (the second Thursday) dedicated to remind people to ask family, friends and colleagues the question, "Are you ok?", in a meaningful way.** ** _R U OK?_ is a non-profit suicide prevention organisation founded by Australian Gavin Larkin in 2009. For more information, check out their website!  
**

 **And I think everyone can kinda guess what 'subject matter' I'm talking about. So if references to suicide makes you uncomfortable, kindly skip this chapter and await my next update. :)**

 **Reply to emmahoshi: Haha, thanks for wishing me luck~ Gathered, Roy wouldn't be too happy being teased about his non-existent height issues. And I'm no Chemistry student so that code was the best I could come up with, lolz. Once again, thanks for the review!**

 **This has been rambling, so a quick thank you to all of you who have favourited/followed/reviewed so far. (Wow, I'm nearing 50 follows already?!) Love you guys!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist (including its awesome characters).**

* * *

 _Interlude – Demons_

Keep your angels close, and your demons closer.

Hide them in your heart and mind, and pray that no one sees them.

Pray that no one asks.

Never.

* * *

 _Sergeant Major Heymans Breda breathed out slowly as his finger hovered over the cold metal trigger._

Steady now.

 _He furrowed his eyebrows, aligning his sights on his target. The crimson circle burned like a beacon against a dazzling white background._

 _Breda squeezed the trigger, feeling the rifle recoil against his body with an ear-splitting_ BANG! _which even his ear mufflers could not completely dampen. The pressing of the trigger, the backward force of the bullet slamming against his arm, rattling bones and clattering teeth – to Breda, that was the most exhilarating part of firing a gun._

 _The bullet tore through the vaguely humanoid cardboard cut-out propped up against the opposite wall, and Breda already knew that he'd made a near perfect shot even before he raised his eyes to check his accuracy._

 _Ah well, '_ near' _was the key word here. His shot had gone clean through the second inner ring, barely missing the red bullseye by a few centimetres._

 _A gunshot was promptly fired from the shooting post next door, and Breda watched with raised eyebrows as a smoking hole appeared neatly in the middle of the adjacent cut-out's 'head'._

 _"Still going for headshots, I see." commented Breda casually, raising himself over the top of the dividing wall to grin down at his friend and once-fellow-cadet. "My, if you're_ this _direct with women, it's no wonder you haven't gotten yourself a girlfriend yet."_

 _Sergeant Jean Havoc snapped his head up from his own rifle, face going red from the jibe. "Hey, now you listen here! I just haven't met the right woman yet. And besides," he stood up and sighed dramatically. "It doesn't help that girls usually gravitate to the bigger fish."_

 _Breda's grin grew wider as he stepped out from behind the wall, taking off his ear mufflers and leaving them hanging around his neck. "So you_ admit _that you're the 'little fish'." he leaned in closer and winked conspiratorially. "And I'm pretty sure your superior officer wouldn't be very pleased with being called a 'fish'. You know, with water connotations and all that."_

 _Havoc rolled his eyes and slung the leather strap of his rifle over his shoulder. "You're a pain in the arse, Breda."_

 _"Not as much as you are, Havoc."_

 _The two officers exchanged grins and slapped each other on the backs good-naturedly as they made their way to the shooting range locker room._

 _"So, how has East City been treating you?" called Breda over the top of his locker as he donned his military jacket, smoothing out the creases as he checked himself in the grimy mirror._

 _"Hmm, just fine." Havoc mumbled around the unlighted cigarette perched in between his teeth. And despite the short reply, he smiled back at Breda, and it was a truly genuine smile – Breda realized then, with dull shock, that he hadn't seen Havoc actually_ smile _since the academy._

 _Perhaps the transfer to East City really had been good for him._

 _"When are you going back to Central?" asked Havoc, slamming his locker close and leaning against it as he lit his cigarette. Breda watched the rings of smoke drift dreamily to the ceiling._

 _"Tomorrow." replied Breda promptly._

 _"Aww. That's too fast. Bar-hopping tonight?"_

 _Breda smiled but shook his head. "Can't. I'm in East City as an escort, remember?"_

 _"Ah… Your commanding officer, is it? Let me just recall his name…" Havoc laid back his head and pretended to think._

 _Now it was Breda's turn to roll his eyes. "Major Patton."_

 _Havoc snapped his fingers in mock realization and pointed them at Breda. "_ That's _the one."_

 _"You don't have to brag about being appointed under a lieutenant colonel, Havoc." shot back Breda as he strode towards the exit, readjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder. "And a pretty famous one at that."_

 _"Oh yes I do." Havoc had a stupid grin on his face which Breda was very tempted to physically wipe off._

 _Breda turned around sharply, expression suddenly serious. "Havoc, I mean it. Be careful."_

 _Havoc's smile dropped. He took a long draught of his cigarette, blowing out a thin ribbon of smoke which lingered in the air like a coiled grey snake. "Be careful of what?" he asked noncommittally._

 _"You know what I mean. A man like that has a lot of enemies. But the person you have to be the most cautious of is_ him _." Breda shut his eyes and sighed, wondering if it was adequate to be sharing such information with the sandy haired sniper. "Havoc, there have been rumours around Central…"_

 _"Breda." said Havoc shortly, and his voice was so uncharacteristically solemn that Breda found his eyes unwillingly drawn to his slender frame._

 _Havoc's sky blue eyes were no longer playful. In fact, they carried a heavy severity which Breda didn't even know Havoc was capable of. "Breda, I don't care what other people say about him. Yes, he's_ _probably_ _the most eccentric military official in East City, with the exception of Grumman; yes, he never, like_ never _, gets his paperwork submitted on time; yes, sometimes he acts all condescending and smug and even though I know it's an act I_ really _want to hit him. But he's still a good man – one of the best I've ever met, and I won't ever regret joining his cause."_

 _Havoc stared meaningfully at Breda, but whatever 'cause' he was talking about, Breda had no interest in finding out._

 _The redhead waved a dismissive hand and kept walking. "Whatever. It's your funeral."_

 _Havoc scoffed. "Besides, didn't your major serve with Lieutenant Colonel Mustang during the war? Just ask_ him _."_

 _Breda cast a withering look at Havoc over his shoulder. "He doesn't like to talk about it."_

 _Ironic, when you thought about it. War being a taboo subject amongst military officers._

* * *

 _The sergeant with the rust-coloured hair raised a fisted hand to knock, but hesitated before his knuckles hit solid wood._

Was it a good time?

 _How could it be? It was never a good time, not with the war memorial being held tomorrow._

 _It was a week after Major Patton's meeting in East City, and Breda stood before his superior's office, a reluctant silhouette clad in military blue. The door was heavily scratched and looked just about ready to cave in with a good kick or two, and Breda wondered how was it they'd ended up in the darkest, crappiest section of Central Command – that dingy little office tucked away in some corner that no one wanted._

 _But that was exactly how Patton preferred it, hidden away in the shadows, a mousy man of small stature, his face rather plain looking and not at all memorable. Breda knew he didn't like drawing attention to himself, and would rather live out his days as a major, filing paperwork and signing forms for the rest of his career._

He used to be such a talented young man – _people would whisper –_ Such potential. Such fervour! And then the war happened, and now look at him.

 _Breda frowned, just managing to conceal the expression of disgust which flashed across his face from prying eyes. Disgust at the government, this military which he had sworn on his life and blood to serve._

 _Because this was where the military kept their 'broken goods', stamped useless and thrown away to rot and perish out of sight._

 _Breda didn't really mind though. All he wanted was a quiet and peaceful life, where he could retire without ever having to deal with political drama – so_ messy _. With that goal in mind, Patton was the perfect commanding officer._

 _Breda shook his head to himself and decided to knock anyway._

 _A beat later, a quiet voice sounded from within: "Come in."_

 _Breda entered and shut the door, blinking as his vision adjusted to the murky dimness of the small office. A fluorescent light burned low and listlessly in the ceiling._

 _Breda could almost hear Havoc's good-natured teasing in his ear – at least the blonde had a job in an actually_ decent _office._

" _Sergeant Breda." said the man seated at the table – Major Patton, once glorious, now ash. How was it that with each passing day he seemed to grow even smaller? His shoulders seemed to hunch and curl gradually into himself, and Breda was almost convinced the major would roll up into a perfectly round ball before too long. "What is it?"_

 _Breda cleared his throat and snapped into a polite salute. "I'm here to drop this off, major." he laid the freshly dry-cleaned and neatly pressed military uniform, sealed in its plastic package, over the top of the nearest chair. Medals glimmered and shone along its front like newly polished gold._

" _Ah, the memorial is tomorrow, isn't it?" Major Patton swivelled in his chair till his back was to Breda, his tone as dry as bone. "A war memorial, they call it. And yet sometimes, I can't tell what exactly it is that they're mourning – the comrades we lost in Ishval, or the clean souls we left behind in the bloodstained sand?" Patton chuckled, a rough little sound which had long since lost its humour. "Very poetic, don't you think? I've been dabbling in theatre recently."_

" _Ah. That sounds…nice, major." answered Breda uncertainly, edging towards the door._

" _Have you ever been to the theatre, Sergeant Breda?"_

" _No, I can't say I have."_

" _A shame. I enjoyed a very famous play just last week in East City – ah, Lieutenant Colonel Mustang was kind enough to accompany me. Have you ever heard of_ Hamlet _?"_

" _It sounds like something very delicious, if you would pardon me, sir."_

" _Ha! I like your sense of humour, Sergeant Breda. It's one of the reasons I've kept you around." Patton whirled back around, the wheels of his chair squealing, and Breda nearly started back as a pair of unremarkable brown eyes met his. "'_ To be or not to be, that is the question. _'"_

" _Pardon?" asked Breda._

" _It was one of the lines of the play. Very intriguing." answered Patton vaguely, his eyes staring at Breda, and yet they seemed to be staring at nothing at the same time._

 _Breda coughed, but the painfully artificial sound did nothing to disperse the strangely uneasy atmosphere. "Oh, speaking of the lieutenant colonel, sir – just out of curiosity, what is he like? I have a friend who works under him."_

" _The Flame Alchemist? I served with him for a while in the war – young and eager, I would say, though it didn't take long for Ishval to change him." Patton turned his head, his line of sight moving from Breda to alight on some invisible spot on the opposite wall. "He's doing well in the east, isn't he? Maybe he'll last a little longer than I did."_

 _Breda licked his lips, suddenly eager to get the hell out of there. "I'll take my leave then, sir."_

" _Mm…Have a good night, Sergeant Breda."_

 _Patton swivelled around to face the blank wall, and Breda knew that the major could stare at it for hours at a time._

 _Breda turned on his heel and slipped through the creaky door, letting out a small sigh as he did so._

 _Without even a final glance at the office behind him, Breda strode down the hallway, whistling softly to himself._

 _The eerie notes echoed down the grey walls. A colourless tomb._

 _What a perfect place to die._

* * *

That day, he hadn't shown up.

 _Breda fidgeted with the polished leather visor of his peaked cap, part of the official military uniform he wore only once or twice per annum. From the one of the cracked windowpanes of the hallway, left slightly ajar, Breda could hear the dull roar of a milling crowd, and the thrumming booms of canons being fired as the ceremony began._

There were a million reasons why he would have skipped, right? Maybe he just overslept.

 _Breda felt nervous for reason he had yet to comprehend. He drew in a breath, as if steeling himself, before rapping smartly on the office door._

 _"Major Patton?"_

 _Silence._ What other sound in the world could ever be louder than dead silence?

 _"Major?" Breda called, more loudly this time. The door remained resolutely unopened._

If I'd known, I wouldn't have left.

 _"Major, I'm coming in." warned Breda, turning the doorknob and pushing it open._

But how could I have guessed?

 _The first thing he registered was the darkness. The thick velvet curtains were drawn, and the room's only illumination was the meagre sunlight which filtered through the doorway from the outer corridor._

 _The second thing he registered was the blood._

So much blood.

 _A ghost-pale hand, stretched out on top of his table, cold fingers still clenched around a small revolver._

Nonono.

 _Blood on the walls. Blood on the curtains. Blood splattered on the table with bits of brain matter and blown off skull._

Crimson everywhere.

 _Breda had spent so much time convincing himself that Patton wasn't capable of such an act. But he was – and this was dead proof._

Was life that meaningless to him?

 _Breda covered his mouth with a gloved hand as a rolling surge of nausea nearly sent him to his knees. He gasped for air, fingers clawing for purchase on the chipped wooden doorframe._

 _He turned and ran._

 _The whispers followed his every footstep, hissing and laughing as the muffled thud of his boots reverberated off the monochromic walls._

Cowardcowardcoward.

* * *

" _Wait, you can't just –"_

 _Breda pushed past Havoc, ignoring his frantic protests as the blonde sniper tried to stop him._

 _"Wait, hold on – Can't you at least let me speak to him first!"_

 _Breda shot Havoc a look so filled with venom and fury that his friend actually loosened his grip on Breda's arm and shrunk back._

 _Breda shook off Havoc's weakened grasp and flung open the mahogany double doors._

 _The Flame Alchemist looked up from the report he had been mulling over, expression explicably bored. "Havoc, what –"_

 _Breda didn't even give him the chance to finish his sentence before storming right up to his table and saluting rigidly. "Sir. I want in."_

 _Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang raised one eyebrow at the strange request and leaned to the side, cocking his other eyebrow at Havoc, who stood red and flustered in the doorway._

 _"He – I –" Havoc fumbled for a response before groaning and burying his head in his hands. "I'm sorry I told him. But he said –"_

 _"We'll talk about this later." Mustang waved a hand. "You should really have a firmer handle on your tongue, Havoc. If anyone asks to see me, I'm unavailable."_

 _Havoc glanced anxiously from Breda, who stood as stock still as a statue, face completely devoid of any visible emotion; to his superior, who was regarding Breda with an expression of vague curiosity._

 _Saluting once, he retreated back out the door and pulled it shut._

 _The resonating_ 'click!' _echoed dramatically in the ensuing stillness._

 _Breda's hand remained resolutely attached to his forehead. His dark eyes stared straight ahead, never quite meeting the sharp gaze of the raven-haired colonel._

 _"Sergeant Major Heymans Breda, am I correct?" asked Mustang, setting down the report and folding his fingers neatly on top of his table._

 _If he was surprised that the colonel knew his name, Breda certainly didn't show it._

 _"I've heard a lot about you from Havoc." Mustang paused, and his eyes darkened ever so slightly. "I'm sorry about –"_

 _"Don't." growled Breda._

 _"Don't?"_

 _"Don't say you're sorry. Because no one really means it. No one cares about one crazy major who committed suicide in his own office. So don't pretend that you do." said Breda tightly. His hand, the one raised to his hairline, was shaking imperceptibly._

 _Mustang was silent for a long moment, and Breda could feel those fathomless black eyes observing him. Finally, the colonel sighed and looked away. "I do care. We served together in Ishval." he shut his eyes, contemplating. "Patton deserved more than this."_

 _"_ No one _deserves to be forced over the edge. No one deserves to see taking his own life as the only way out." Breda's voice cracked, and he hurried to patch the holes in his rapidly collapsing composure. "I want change. Because no one deserves_ that _."_

 _Mustang regarded him, obsidian gaze steady. He leaned forward as if to speak, and Breda flinched instinctively – for what had he been thinking when he'd decided to seek out the Flame Alchemist? Did he really believe that Mustang_ wasn't _like the rest of them?_

 _But all he said was:_

" _Let's take a walk."_

* * *

" _I hope you like mocha."_

 _Breda jerked upright as a paper cup appeared in front of him, dangling from two glove-encased fingers._

 _The sergeant accepted it suspiciously, the warmth of the hot coffee it contained spreading outwards from his cupped hands, a swelling wave which made the world seem just a little brighter. 'BREDA' had been scribbled across the side of the cup in black marker – the unmistakable messy handwriting of a busy barista._

 _"I think I got your name right." commented Mustang, leaning against the low metal fence as he sipped at his own drink._

 _Breda stared out at the small park a street away from East Command. A boy ran after his dog, laughing and calling. A girl on a pink bicycle whipped past the two officers in a flurry of red and gold leaves._

 _"Well?" Mustang swirled his coffee, watching small puffs of steam rise into the rapidly cooling autumn air. "An open area can't be wiretapped, so speak freely."_

 _Breda frowned in confusion. "And the coffee?"_

 _"A convenient excuse. After all, two military officers wouldn't be roaming in the park for no good reason." At this, Mustang took another sip of his mocha and sighed blissfully_ _._

 _Breda felt his fingers tighten around the frail paper cup. "I want to…I want to change this country."_

 _"A common goal, at least." remarked Mustang, voice all too casual. "'_ State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly it lies; and this lie slips from its mouth: 'I, the state, am the people. _'"_

 _Breda glanced at the colonel curiously. Mustang shrugged. "Friedrich Nietzche."_

 _"Havoc did say you were a bit of a nerd."_

 _Mustang emitted a short bark of laughter. "I really should have a word with Havoc about what he says about me." he leaned forwards, raising an eyebrow at Breda. "Here's another quote by Nietzche: '_ He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. _'"_

 _Breda stiffened._

 _Mustang watched._

 _"Are you implying…" Breda started slowly. "That saving this country from itself isn't my sole purpose?"_

 _"Perhaps, perhaps not." Mustang had gone back to leisurely enjoying his coffee, but Breda was far from fooled by his cool demeanour – the colonel was watching, observing Breda's every expression, every movement. "But it's understandable if you're angry – it was the war and the guilt that drove Patton to his end. A war started and condoned by the State."_

 _"So what if I_ am _angry?" muttered Breda. "What if I want them to pay for what they did?"_

 _Mustang tapped the base of his cup against the metal edge of the fence thoughtfully. "Vengeance is all well and fine – anger can be a strong motivator, after all. I'm not telling you that seeking revenge is bad. But if you want to join us, you'll have to promise me this – don't let your anger blind you. When push comes to shove, Amestris and its people will always come first. Don't ever forget that."_

 _Breda pursed his lips and mulled over the colonel's words._

 _Slowly, he nodded. "I swear. Amestris comes first."_

 _"Good. I like the look in your eyes." Mustang smiled lopsidedly, and Breda was suddenly struck by the vernal_ rawness _of his youth. The boy who existed within the man. "I'll have your transfer papers finalized by tomorrow."_

 _Breda blinked, unbelieving, shocked._ Just like that.

He's trusting me…just like that.

 _Breda raised his free hand and snapped into a neat salute._

" _Sergeant Major Heymans Breda reporting for duty, sir."_

* * *

Second Lieutenant Breda glanced out the clear window at the swiftly darkening sky, a violet canvas awash with bold strokes of pink and scarlet and gold.

It was strange – how the anger and fury of his early days could fade so. Somewhere along the way, East Command had ceased to be 'that place where the Flame Alchemist worked' and the starting point of Breda's quest for retribution; and had begun to become a sunlit place of jokes being sniggered behind hands and quiet laughter exchanged in peaceful moments.

Family. Home.

It was also strange – how that impression could change so drastically.

It wasn't raining, but for all the gloominess and deadness which hung over the general atmosphere of Breda's workplace, it may as well be.

It had been two weeks since they'd first received that phone call. One since they'd returned from the funeral.

 _Hello? Maes, if you're calling to pester me about Elicia,_ again –

 _I regret to have to tell you this, Colonel Mustang, but Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes was found dead this morning. I understand that he was a good friend of yours. I'm sorry for your los–_

That unknown, unnamed person on the phone – that person who _broke the news_ – never made it past the first line.

Breda would never forget the shock, the disbelief, the pure _grief_ ; all of which flashed across the colonel's face in the space of a second as the receiver slipped from his fingers and clattered to the table.

 _Don't say you're sorry. Because no one really means it. No one really cares._

And the crux of the problem – Breda decided in frustration – was that he absolutely _refused_ to let himself grief since the funeral. That damned mask he wore, and Breda knew for certain it was a mask – for how could someone dive right back into work the day after finding out his _best friend_ had just been murdered as if everything in the world was absolutely peachy? Merely smile when asked if he wanted to take the day off and wave away their concern like pesky flies.

 _I'm okay. It's fine. What are you talking about, of course I am._

Breda sighed morosely as he shifted the heavy stack of folders wedged underneath his arm. Hawkeye had been called away on an errand for that day and possibly the next, and the only message she'd left with them was to make sure the colonel ate three meals a day and didn't do anything stupid.

Breda's mind went blank at that last part. For what exactly constituted 'anything stupid'?

Approaching voices around the corner. Breda stopped instinctively, his muffled footsteps fading into nothing.

"…the news?" someone was saying. An unfamiliar voice. East Command actually constituted of a relatively small community, so this was probably one of their new recruits.

"What news?" asked a second voice curiously, also foreign.

"It's been all over Central City's newspapers in the past week. That Investigations officer who was killed in action."

Breda froze as if turned to stone.

The voices kept talking.

"I'm sure you don't know this since you just transferred here last week, while I've been here a month – but you know the Flame Alchemist? Apparently he and the dead guy were very close, or so I've heard."

"Oo, I smell drama."

Breda instinctively ducked into a darkened alcove in between two pillars as they got closer.

"Drama indeed. And you know something else I've noticed? That Colonel Roy Mustang never, like _never_ takes off his gloves. He wears them almost everywhere."

"What's so strange about that? The gloves are like his trademark. It would be the equivalent of a regular military officer equipping himself with a gun."

"Come on, it's the middle of summer. No one in their right minds would be wearing gloves twenty four seven. Unless…" the first person trailed off thoughtfully. Breda could hear their soft footsteps on carpet now as they rounded the corner.

"Unless?" probed the second.

"Unless…" and the officer's voice was dropped in a conspiratorial manner which did nothing to decrease its volume. "Unless he has something to hide."

Breda felt himself stiffen.

"Oh?" asked the second voice, intrigued. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Scars, cuts, the like. You know what they say – State Alchemists are a half-crazed bunch, especially those who fought in Ishval. Those who returned human eventually self-destructed, and the rest returned a bunch of cold-blooded monsters –"

" _Shh!_ "

The voices were abruptly cut off as Breda emerged as casually as he could from his hiding spot, pretending that he had just been picking up some fallen folders. His hands clenched at his sides, but he strode right past the two young officers and hurried down the corridor.

He didn't miss the final whispered remark which seemed to tail him down the hallways: "That's one of _them._ "

But Mustang wouldn't be capable of self-harm, would he? No, Breda refused to believe that.

And yet Breda knew, in the deepest recesses of his mind, that the colonel _was_ capable of such things – in fact, he was probably slowly starving himself to death right about now. Irregular meals and a general loss of appetite were always good signs that Mustang was either stressed or miserable.

But he wouldn't… He wouldn't…?

Breda's thoughts were interrupted when he nearly ran straight into Havoc in the doorway of their outer office.

"You're finally back from the archives." Havoc rubbed the back of his head and offered Breda a half-hearted greeting. "You just missed Fuery. He had to leave because of a family matter – Falman accompanied him home. You know how Hawkeye and the colonel have been going on about being careful ever since…"

His light azure eyes brimmed with barely repressed sorrow.

"Yeah." he muttered. "Since _that._ "

"It's fine." said Breda quickly. "Office hours ended ages ago anyway. You should be heading home yourself."

Havoc cast an uncertain look over his shoulder. Breda didn't miss the spot his cerulean gaze alighted on – the firmly closed doors of the colonel's private office.

"He's still in there?" asked Breda quietly.

Havoc's only answer was a slow nod of the head, sandy hair bobbing slightly as he did so.

Breda sighed deeply. "Go home, Havoc. You have a date with Lieutenant Catalina tonight, don't you?" he grinned. "Have fun."

Havoc flushed. "It's not a _date!_ It's just a…a drink! Between friends." then the light-haired lieutenant sobered and shook his head. "And it doesn't…it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel right to be enjoying myself when he's so…so _sad._ "

Breda could only smile softly. "I'm sure he wouldn't want his own mood to affect us. It's part of the reason why he pretends, after all." he clapped a reassuring hand on Havoc's shoulder. "Go home, Havoc. I'll make sure he's alright."

 _Alright?_ But no, Breda didn't have the power to magically make things _alright._ And oh how the world reminded him of it.

Havoc hesitated, but under Breda's firm stare, reluctantly nodded his head.

Havoc left. He didn't even head back into the office to pack his things. Perhaps he had been too distracted.

After setting down the documents he'd fetched, Breda stood before the ever so familiar double doors of the inner office.

The red-haired officer swallowed and raised a clenched fist, rapping softly on polished mahogany.

"Colonel Mustang?"

Silence. _What other sound in the world could ever be louder than dead silence?_

"Colonel?" Breda called, more loudly this time. The door remained resolutely unopened.

Breda felt an inexplicable chill snake up his spine.

"Colonel, I'm coming in." warned Breda, and his hand was trembling even as he turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

The first thing he registered was the darkness. Twilight had fallen in the outside world, and its dim rays of watery sunlight were the murky room's sole light source.

The second thing he registered was the slender silhouette lying on the table.

For the thousandth of a second, Breda felt the icy hands of fear grip his heart before Mustang's shoulders rose and fell once in time to soft breathing.

Breda shut his eyes.

Asleep. Just asleep.

Breda slowly rounded the table, frowning as he contemplated his next course of action. The colonel was well and truly out, an untidy swathe of various papers and files spread over the table underneath his folded arms. He wasn't wearing his gloves, and the underside of his left wrist was left exposed by the awkward positioning of a man slumped over from sheer exhaustion.

Breda's eyes flicked down to Mustang's hands, examining that pale stretch of bare skin in the failing light.

 _No scars. No healing wounds._

Breda leaned over and cautiously shook the colonel's shoulder. "Sir?"

Mustang murmured incoherently.

"Sir? It's seven o' clock. Everyone has already gone home."

"Mm…" Mustang's eyes flickered open, dreamy and unfocused. "Maes?"

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Breda bit the inside of his cheek and pretended that he hadn't heard the colonel dream-speak.

The files that Mustang had been reading were now displayed for all the world to see. Breda widened his eyes slightly as he realized these were _investigative_ reports – everything from witness statements to forensic lab results to a post-mortem autopsy report.

 _Crap._ Mustang wasn't even officially supposed to be _on_ the case. Where the hell had he gotten all of these?

And Breda could've kicked himself for asking that question – for if there was one thing he'd learnt about Roy Mustang, it was that the colonel could be extremely resourceful when it came down to it.

"Breda?" asked Mustang vaguely, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "Did you need something?"

"It's getting late, sir." said Breda, tearing his eyes away from the incriminating information currently occupying the colonel's table. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Mustang cocked his head. "This afternoon…I think?" he offered uselessly.

Breda figured that _last_ afternoon was closer to the truth. Mentally shaking his head, he remarked. "Let's go out for dinner. It's on me."

"I'm not hungry." Mustang flat-out refused.

"Maybe not. But you still need to eat." shot back Breda firmly. Unlike Havoc or Fuery, Breda was more experienced with a grumpy Colonel Mustang, and knew that more often than not, you just needed to stand your ground. Prove that you were more stubborn than him.

"I told you," said the colonel, clearly annoyed now. "I'm not hungry."

Breda let out an exasperated breath, turning around to conceal the almost desperate expression on his face as Mustang reached down and opened his desk drawer. Wood scraped dryly against wood.

What was Breda supposed to do? He _had_ to get him to eat or the colonel would eventually pass out and Hawkeye would be absolutely _pissed_ at him.

Breda swivelled back around. "Look, I promised Hawkeye that I would keep an eye on you. So could you stop being such a dick and –"

Something silver and slender had appeared in the colonel's hand, glinting maliciously in the golden light.

Breda widened his eyes.

Before he had even registered what he was doing, Breda struck out instinctively, fist smacking against the slim metal knife.

The letter-opener clattered to the wooden floorboards.

Breda blinked. _Shit. Shit. It was a stupid reflex._

Mustang stared down at the fallen blade, raising his eyes to meet Breda's. Those deep, infinite eyes – _black, black, black._

"You didn't _actually_ think that I would try something like that, did you?" Mustang smirked, but this was the kind of smirk he wore when he found absolutely nothing amusing. That smirk which struck Breda as chilling, frightening even. "Were you worried? That I would just… _off_ myself like your former commanding officer? Really, Breda, I'm touched by your concern."

Breda winced. That was a low blow. Mustang _knew_ that Patton was still a sensitive subject. "Sir, we've _all_ been worried."

"I don't _need_ your worry!" Mustang shouted. He was agitated now – Breda could see it in the fire in his eyes, burning unchecked and out of control. "What I _need_ , is the lot of you to be _useful_ for once and help me find Hughes's killer!"

Breda swallowed. "Sir –"

Mustang seemed to realize that he had overstepped. He pressed a hand to his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just…just go."

Breda was still, his mind struggling to catch up with the rapidly unfolding events.

"If you're worried that I'll do anything stupid, then _don't_." Mustang lowered his hand, and the look in his eyes…

Dark flames of hatred and wrath. Blazing. Devouring.

"Because I won't go to hell – at least, not until I can personally drag that _son-of-a-bitch_ down there with me." Mustang smiled, jagged and deadly.

Breda found nothing funny about their current situation.

"Get out." commanded Mustang quietly. "I want to be left alone."

Breda inhaled as if to argue.

"Don't make me order you." Mustang looked away. The colours of dusk rippled across his raven-wing hair like dancing flames.

Breda sighed, knowing full well that the battle was lost. "…Yes sir."

The second lieutenant pulled the door close behind him and slumped heavily against it, closing his eyes.

How was _anything_ going to be alright again?

Breda's eyes snapped open.

 _But no._

He wasn't going to run away again.

Not this time.

* * *

Breda had already known that Colonel Mustang wouldn't have _listened_ and gone home.

He was pretty sure that Mustang had been literally living off work for the past few weeks – he shaved and showered in the men's room just down the corridor when Hawkeye began to admonish him for looking dishevelled, and basically survived on the mere two spare uniforms he kept in his office, not even bothering to head back to his townhouse for a fresh change of clothes. The takeout and cafeteria food were nothing new – after all, the colonel was famous for being an absolute idiot when it came to cooking anything more complicated than instant noodles.

But he hadn't expected to run into him on the street either.

It was a Saturday, a day of sleeping in and reading the news and watching ball games for Breda. But today, the second lieutenant was following a wholly different schedule.

The sky seemed to reflect Breda's heavy mood – the angels were weeping in small surges and bursts, the rain shifting from a light drizzle to a heavy downpour and back again even as Breda made his way through the umbrella-laden crowd towards East Command.

He was just several blocks away when his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of military navy amongst the milling pedestrians.

Breda blinked – no, that tousled black hair and white gloves were unmistakable.

The colonel was standing outside a small coffee shop – the exact same one where he had first bought Breda a cup of mocha. He was glaring up at the pouring skies, struggling to open the black umbrella wedged underneath his arm as he tried to balance a Styrofoam cup with his other hand.

The cup was jerked out of his grip as someone in an awful hurry shoved past Mustang, spilling its steaming dark brown contents to the wet pavement. The colonel cursed and picked up the cup, but his early morning coffee was now wholly unsalvageable.

Breda felt the urge to chuckle to himself as he pushed through the crowd. The old coffee maker in their office must have died again, and Mustang, lacking in Fuery's mechanical skills or Falman's almost magical ability of getting half-dead coffee makers to cough and splutter back to life, had to head outside for his daily caffeine intake.

Breda positioned his open umbrella over the rivulets of water streaming down the colourful shop awnings and soaking the colonel's shoulders. Mustang turned around, and any shock he may have felt at encountering his Rook outside office hours was compressed into a single raised eyebrow.

Breda saluted – the familiar action was suddenly brought out of context in his Saturday civilian clothes. "Permission to assist, sir."

Mustang merely eyed Breda, expression cautiously neutral. "Granted."

* * *

"I hope you like mocha."

Breda grinned down at the seated colonel as he set down a paper bag and two cardboard cups on the small wooden bench. He had left Mustang in one of the decorative pavilions which dotted East City Park, out of the rain and wet, while he had hurried off to get breakfast. Quite frankly, he hadn't expected Mustang to still be there when he returned, so that was awfully nice of the colonel.

Mustang simply looked at him, resolutely unimpressed. "No cream –"

"And extra chocolate." continued Breda smoothly. "Please. I've been working for you for more than four years. Who do you take me for?"

Mustang's lips curved in the slightest of smiles, one which was immediately wiped away as he reached for the cup. He blew at the steam and took a small sip, once-bright gaze dull and thoughtful as he stared out at the rain drenched trees.

Breda took a long draught of his own coffee in silence, eyes never quite leaving the colonel. Compared to the raged-filled persona whom Breda had encountered the evening before, this version of Mustang was almost pitifully frail. A transparent glass doll, or a candle snuffed out by the rain.

Breda quickly averted his gaze as Mustang turned around and rummaged through the paper bag, pulling out a blissfully hot piece of apple pie in plastic wrap. His eyes brightened ever so slightly as he searched for a fork to eat it with.

At least he was _eating._

"This really takes me back." commented Breda casually, leaning against one of the slender wooden pillars of the white pavilion. "We had our very first conversation right here, in this park."

"I'm surprised you still remember." Mustang remarked, fumbling as he unwrapped the pie. "That was a long time ago. Things have changed since then."

Breda _mmm_ ed in agreement. "' _If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you._ '" he murmured absently.

Mustang snorted as he took a bite of his pie. "I can't believe you're quoting Nietzche back at me."

"I guess you do pick up a few things along the way."

Mustang was silent for a contemplative moment. "I haven't forgotten, if that's what you're concerned about. I still remember the words I told you all those years ago, and I'll continue to stick to them – Amestris comes first, personal vengeance second. But if that day should come…the day when I finally come face-to-face with the person who killed Hughes, I order all of you to stand back. Because yes, it _is_ personal – and I swear, I _will_ make his murderer suffer."

Mustang had confessed his dark intentions in such a nonchalant tone, as if he were merely making a general statement about the weather, that Breda felt he _should_ be concerned.

But that could wait till later, for now…

"No, that's not what I was concerned about, actually."

Mustang raised his eyes inquisitively. "Oh? Pray enlighten me, then."

Breda regarded the colonel steadily. He'd given Mustang's condition and his own inability to do anything in such a situation some serious thought the previous night – and had arrived at one conclusion. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

Mustang cocked his head. "It's not a work day, Breda. You have permission to do whatever the hell you want."

"If so," Breda breathed in deeply and exhaled, steeling himself. "Then I have to ask…"

"Are you okay?"

The question echoed in the empty space between them, the silence punctuated only by the steady rhythm of falling rain.

Mustang furrowed his eyebrows, the expression on his face clearly revealing how _stupid_ a question he thought it was. He raised himself a little straighter as if to answer.

Breda could already tell that he was going to lie before the first word left his mouth. He wasn't sure how he knew, exactly – perhaps it was the way the colonel set his jaw, or the way his eyes flickered with a liar's guilt.

But whatever false tales Mustang had already prepared at the tip of his tongue, he didn't deploy them.

Instead the colonel leaned back his head and laughed shortly. "You know I can't answer that question. Not with complete honesty, at least."

"I never expected you to, colonel." Breda paused, wondering how best to put sentiment into words. "All I wanted was to remind you that you're not alone. That when you're ready, we're – _I_ am – always here to hear you say: 'It's not okay.' And I know that won't do much good in itself, but this is all I _can_ do."

 _I can't help you fight your demons, sir. I would if I could – but this is the only way I know how to make things just a little bit better._

 _And I know that it's not enough, but –_

"Thank you, Second Lieutenant Breda." said Mustang softly.

Breda blinked. "Um, no problem, sir."

The colonel turned around, rising slowly from the bench.

Breda watched, almost entranced, as he stepped out into the rain, tipping his face to the crying sky and closing his eyes. The rain embraced him like a long lost son, thin rivulets of water streaming down his cheeks and neck, soaking his dark hair and blue uniform.

Perhaps that was the only way he could hide his tears.

The sun broke through the thick blanket of grey clouds then, shedding its golden rays on this fresh and newly cleansed world. The grass at his feet glittered like emeralds, and the park was suddenly awash with brilliant light and colour.

Roy Mustang opened his eyes and smiled at the sky – it was still a sad smile, but _genuine._ Hopeful.

"The sun is out."

* * *

 **REMINDER:**

 **As I wrote this story in context with the early 20th century (and taking into consideration that Roy would literally never have gone to a psychiatrist just because a history of mental illness could potentially jeopardize his career), some things here aren't applicable to our current time period.**

 **So if anyone here has a friend who they think is depressed (or starts quoting _Hamlet_ for gods sake), I strongly advise you to alert an adult/teacher(if you're a student)/doctor/call a help line etc. **

**Ask someone whom you care about 'Are you okay?' when you get the chance, because a conversation could change a life.**


	10. Chapter 9 - Search

**Author's Note:  
**

 **Apologies for the late update - been up and about traveling this weekend and only got a moment's peace right now. :P**

 **Confession 2#: I suck at writing mystery. I honestly do - it's my worst genre. And now look what this story has come to... (I swear it's slowly becoming one of those CSI episodes, but I guess those long hours of binge watching _Criminal Minds_ finally came in handy).**

 **On the bright side, I had fun playing around with so many new point-of-views this chapter. This fanfic is purely experimental, so please remember to let me know what you think! As always, thank you for your lovely support as well as everyone who hit that _follow_ _/_ _favourite_ button this week!**

 **So now let's move on to what's happening with Team Mustang and the Elric brothers... Cheers and thanks for reading!**

 **Reply to Guest: Apologies for that! Once again, this is pretty experimental so hopefully this chapter would be more interesting?**

 **Reply to emmahoshi: Yup, exactly so. Well, Edward was dealing with his own grief back then, so the colonel was the least of his concerns... Edward does have plenty of opportunities to help him now though (lol?).**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own...anything...here. *yawns and falls asleep***

* * *

 _Chapter 9 – Search_

" _Winry!_ "

The best automail mechanic in the world (or as she insisted Edward call her) – the one and only Winry Rockbell, pushed up the heavy welding mask strapped to her forehead.

"What is it?" she yelled back over her shoulder, setting down her soldering iron on the grease-covered workbench. She loved Granny Pinako, really she did, but interrupt her from her masterpiece to take the garbage out _one_ more time…

"Phone call! It's Edward!" Granny Pinako's booming voice drifted up the stairs, and Winry winced at the superior volume despite herself.

 _Edward?_

Winry felt a wide grin begin to stretch across her face before hastily pointing the ends of her lips back down in an annoyed scowl. " _Finally!_ About time!"

Yanking off her welding mask and patting down her untidy strands of flaxen blonde hair, Winry leapt down the staircase two at a time only to screech to a stop on the kitchen tiles.

Granny Pinako held up the receiver to Winry, calmly puffing on her pipe. "Slow down, Winry. The little shrimp isn't going anywhere."

Winry rolled her eyes and snatched up the phone, shoving it in between her shoulder and cheek as she used her teeth to pull off her dirty work gloves.

" _E–d?_ " she called into the receiver, intentionally stretching out the 'E' in his name to further emphasize her displeasure.

"Sheesh, Winry. Do you _have_ to sound so annoyed whenever I call?"

Winry tried, _really_ tried, to suppress the way her face brightened at the sound of his voice. Finally, she gave up and allowed a wide smile to completely take over her once irritated expression. However, her voice remained thoroughly aggravated – it wouldn't do for Ed to relax just because he thought Winry wasn't angry at him.

Sometimes, boys just needed to be kept on their toes.

"Why do you _think_ I'm annoyed? It's been –" Winry paused to count the days on her fingers. "Five days since you left for Central! And four since you told me you and Al were going to Sersa. You p _romised_ to call, Ed!"

"I was busy!" protested Edward on the other end of the line.

Winry frowned suspiciously. "You forgot, didn't you?"

"I – I didn't!" stammered Ed hastily. He was still _such_ a bad liar.

"Oh, you so did."

"I – Fine, I'm sorry, okay?" huffed Edward reluctantly. "But I'm here now, aren't I? Eh… Winry, this question may sound a little strange, but just hear me out. Did you call my hotel at around eight last night?"

Winry snorted, hoisting herself onto their dining table and crossing her legs. "Edward, I don't even know _which_ hotel you're staying at, or I would have called a long time ago."

"Ah, crap. I should've thought of that." Edward cursed softly, but Winry could still hear his breathy words over the receiver.

"Ed, what's this about? Wait, I received a really strange call last night after dinner – I thought it was you, but the person on the other end didn't say a thing. There were some weird sounds before the line went dead. I thought it was some sort of prank call but…" Winry narrowed her eyes. "Edward, was it you?"

Guilty silence.

"Edward!"

"It – Um, Alphonse pranked call you?"

In the buzzing background, Winry distinctly heard Al's voice cry out: "Brother! You're always putting the blame on me whenever Winry's involved!"

Winry smiled to herself and shook her head in exasperation as Edward yelled an embarrassed denial back at Alphonse.

Ah, those brothers will never grow up.

"So, Ed." Winry pulled her knee up to her chest, resting her chin on it as she spoke. "How have Riza and Roy been? I hope you haven't been causing too much trouble for them."

The line went eerily still.

Winry blinked, wondering if she had accidentally disconnected the call, but no – she could still hear Edward's heavy breathing on the other end.

"Ed? You still there?"

"Mm? Oh yeah. I must have spaced out." Edward drew in a breath, and the sound of it registered in Winry's ears as a fuzzy burst of static. "Hey, since when were _you_ on first name terms with Hawkeye and the colonel?"

Winry grinned. "I'm friends with all your friends, Edward. Besides, Riza and I get along remarkably well."

"Friends." echoed Edward, his tone contemplating. "Friends with Mustang? No, that's just weird…"

Winry laughed. "Jeez Edward. What else would you two be?"

Edward was mysteriously quiet.

"Hello? Earth to Ed?"

"Yes. What else indeed?" Edward sighed deeply. "Winry, I have to go now. I'll call you as soon as I get the chance, okay?"

"Sure, Edward." Winry frowned thoughtfully, her stomach coiling and twisting into knots. "Ed, are you okay? You sound… Did something happen?"

"Goodbye, Winry." retorted Edward quickly.

There was a _click_ as the Elric hung up.

Winry stared at the receiver in her hand, feeling strangely uneasy.

She could've sworn that Ed had ignored her last question.

* * *

It was early, and ridiculously so.

Edward pressed a hand to his face as he leaned against the table – its rickety wooden legs creaked dangerously, protesting the additional body weight.

"Shit." he cursed underneath his breath.

But even if he _hadn't_ been basically sworn to secrecy by Hawkeye, how could he ever announce such news to Winry? Sweet, kind Winry, who was never satisfied just sitting around looking pretty in the midst of a crisis.

Edward removed his hand from his forehead and glared murderously up at the ceiling. "Stupid, selfish bastard."

The whitewashed ceiling remained resolutely silent. Unsurprisingly, cussing to the wall was way less satisfying than cussing to the colonel's face.

 _Don't tell the Fuhrer._

" _But_ why _?" Edward had asked Hawkeye, eyes wide and voice walking the line between fury and barely repressed urgency. "The Fuhrer can help. Or at the very least, he can get people to help us search. And_ if _we still can't find him, then it's still not too late to agree to their terms, right?"_

 _Hawkeye had gazed up at him from her position on the couch. What a bizarre feeling it was, for the older Elric was usually the one looking up. "Edward…" she started slowly. "We can never agree to their terms."_

 _Ed blinked. "But – but it's not unreasonable! I bet the colonel was already considering independency way before any of this ever happened."_

" _It is not the granting of independence to Ishval that is the problem. But rather the timing of it, and the method these people have utilized in seeking it." explained Hawkeye gravely. The team was silent as they listened to their stoic queen. "If Ishval and its people were set free_ now _, years after the war and before we'd had the chance to make amends and mend relationships… What do you think is the first thing the Ishvalans would do after gathering their forces?"_

 _Edward's face had paled. He dropped his eyes to the ground._

 _"Sooner or later, they would almost certainly take up arms against Amestris, in the name of their god and the mortal sins we have committed against their people." said Hawkeye, providing the morbid answer to her own question. "War would break out, and unless Ishval managed to obtain external help, Amestris would once again decimate them. Is that what we want, Edward? Another pointless war?"_

 _"But –" Edward moved desperately to protest._

 _"And what_ if _Fuhrer Grumman knew? His hands would be tied anyway. Terrorized into granting independency to Ishval just because a couple of rebels threatened the life of a_ colonel _– what would Amestris look like to its enemies?" Hawkeye shook her head. "And yet, the paradox of it being: what would Amestris look like to its citizens if it left the Hero of Ishval to die? Cruel and heartless? And yet a necessary act. No, better that we keep this under wraps and deal with it ourselves."_

 _Ed opened his mouth, but not even the inklings of a legitimate argument came to mind._

Ridiculous! _He wanted to yell._ What a ridiculous world this was.

 _Hadn't the colonel done enough for this nation? Didn't he deserve_ at least _this? For Amestris to know and acknowledge all the crap he'd gone through just to make his country a better place._

 _But no, even at the brink of death, this had to be kept a_ secret _._

 _And yet everyone else was nodding, Falman, Breda, Fuery and Havoc. Agreeing with resigned understanding that once again, they were wholly alone._

 _Alphonse shot his brother a helpless glance. Edward returned his gaze, feeling strangely helpless despite himself._

 _Ah, still the child. He should have known by now – this was how the world worked. How it continued to rotate on its axis._

 _Just like Truth, cold and hard._

Their room was empty now, and the phone sitting on the side table had been reconnected to call Winry. The brothers had insisted on tagging along as Breda and Havoc had conducted their investigation late into the night – examining the small waiting room where Edward was attacked but finding nothing, not even a suspicious shoe print.

They'd regrouped at roughly four in the morning, and Hawkeye had forced all of them to get some sleep, even though she herself would probably be facing an utterly restless night – Edward suspected that no one would have listened if not for the hand laid firmly on her holster.

It was probably seven now, and Ed still felt like a walking zombie.

He clutched his head as a sudden throb of pain made him wince. The after effects of the concussion he'd suffered the night before were finally catching up with him.

Al was at his shoulder, always concerned, always worried. "Brother?"

Edward waved a hand, a vague reassurance more to himself than to Alphonse, as he heard the muffled sound of a door being opened and shut from the adjacent suite.

They were alone, and they needed an actual plan of action.

Ed cast one last glance down at the phone. He hoped that Winry had bought his act.

 _Damn, compared to him, I'm such a shitty liar._

* * *

" _Madame!_ "

The richly garbed proprietress of – perhaps not the most successful, but certainly the most enigmatic – bar in all of Central, strode down the mahogany steps.

"What is it, Rosetta? There's no need to shout." Madame Christmas elegantly lighted the cigarette held in between painted red lips.

The young girl was perched atop the brand new bar, surface gleaming with a layer of freshly applied furniture polish. At the sharp sound of high heels descending the staircase, Rosetta flicked her pretty brown braids out of her eyes and held out the receiver of the phone they kept underneath the bar, a mischievous smirk upon her countenance. "Guess who?"

"You're not being quaint with me, Rosetta." smoothly swiping the phone with one hand, Madame Christmas delivered a well-placed smack on Rosetta's head with her other in the same motion. Rosetta, one of Christmas's youngest 'daughters', yelped and glared.

Madame Christmas leaned against the bartop as she took a slow, leisurely draught of her cigarette. "Chris Mustang speaking."

"Madame, apologies for calling so early."

Christmas merely raised an eyebrow at the familiar female voice, as crisp and no-nonsense as ever. If there ever was a woman Christmas respected as much as her late mother, that woman would be Riza Hawkeye. "Riza, dear. What a pleasant surprise. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you for asking." Hawkeye's voice crackled across the line.

Christmas tapped her cigarette against the shiny wooden surface of the bar. Hawkeye, or her little Roy-boy for that matter, never _called_ unless it was concerning military business and/or the end of the world. Really, was that all mothers were for? "I'm assuming that you aren't just checking up on how an old lady is doing."

"Regrettably not, Madame." replied Hawkeye evenly.

"Hmph." Christmas grunted and shifted into a more comfortable position. But Hawkeye always did like to keep conversations brief. "What do you need?"

"Information." answered Hawkeye shortly. Christmas smiled to herself – information she could do. "Everything you can get me on a man named Leonardo Blake. _B-L-A-K-E._ "

"I see." hummed Christmas, committing the name to memory. She didn't believe in leaving paper evidence. "Is the name all I have to go on?"

"He apparently works as a doctor in East City, though the validity of this information is unconfirmed. His heritage, however, is at least half-Ishvalan." said Hawkeye, and neither the tone of her voice nor the evenness of her words had changed since Christmas had answered the phone.

Christmas, the master actress of all master actresses, showed no outward distress at learning that an Ishvalan was involved in this mysterious little piece of business. "That's all?" she asked calmly.

"That's all." replied Hawkeye in equal calmness.

Christmas beckoned to Rosetta, silently gesturing her to go wake Ivy – the tall brunette was one of Madame Christmas's best operatives, and the girl had recently returned from a round of general reconnaissance in the east. "How urgent?" she asked, short and sweet.

Hawkeye seemed to waver, but regained her composure just as rapidly. "As soon as possible."

If that wasn't code red for _VERY_ URGENT, Christmas didn't know what was. "I'll have your information by tonight, tomorrow morning at latest. This 'Leonardo Blake' will be an open book by the time I'm through with him."

"Very much appreciated." said Hawkeye rigidly.

 _Ah Riza, always so formal._

"I know you're busy, Riza dear, but humour me for a moment. How's my Roy-boy been?"

Hawkeye was silent for a full second. "He's…just fine."

Christmas's eyebrow was cocked in a perfect arch with all the dramatic poise of a professional stage performer. "I hope he hasn't been causing you too much trouble."

"No more than usual." answered Hawkeye with full severity. Chris Mustang chuckled appreciatively.

"Ah, Riza. What would he do without you?"

"I'm flattered, Madame, but I'm sure he'll do just fine. Apologies for cutting our conversation short, but –"

"Yes, yes, I know you have work to do. Get Roy-boy to call his poor, lonely mother more often, will you?"

"I'll be sure to let him know. Goodbye, Madame." The line clicked once, and the monotonous _toot…toot…toot…_ of the dialling tone resumed.

Christmas put down the phone and took another draught of her cigarette in contemplation.

Riza was lying.

But _why_ – now that was the big question, wasn't it?

Madame Christmas studied the thick wooden crossbeams traversing the length of the ceiling and came to the conclusion that even _if_ Roy had a tendency to be secretive about most things, she would still have heard _something_ if he was in really deep shit.

Adoptive or not, she was still his mother for crying out loud.

Well, finding out what kind of shit he had gotten himself into _this_ time would just have to wait untill he returned to Central.

Feeling slightly more reassured, Christmas turned her head at the sound of Rosetta's voice calling down the stairs. "Ivy says she'll be down in a minute!"

"Ask her to hurry up." said Christmas. After all, it never hurt to be quick about things. "And pour me a drink while you're at it. That new bottle of bourbon Grumman dropped off last week would be excellent."

Rosetta tossed a yell behind her shoulder, which was responded in turn by an irritated female holler. That done, she skipped down the stairs to comply with Madame's command.

Sliding a whiskey glass across the bar to Christmas, Rosetta leaned over the bartop, emerald eyes wide and earnest as Madame took a leisurely sip of the strong alcohol. "That was Lieutenant Hawkeye, wasn't it? Did you speak to Roy?"

Christmas met those pretty green eyes with a deadened stare. "I didn't talk to him. And before you ask, he's still unavailable."

Rosetta pouted, blushing furiously. "Madame!"

Rosetta, having only being brought in by Christmas roughly five years ago, had been smitten by Roy's easy charm since day one. Christmas sometimes wondered if she'd taught her Roy-boy a little _too_ well.

"Sorry, dear." Christmas laughed softly and patted Rosetta's head with motherly affection. "Better luck next time."

Pushing herself off the bartop and with bourbon in hand, Madame Christmas strolled through the spacious interior of her new bar – a gift from her only son (after he'd sent her last one up in both metaphorical and physical flames), weaving through the round tables neatly swathed in red velvet. Madame was a stickler for details, and it was almost impossible to tell the difference between her old bar and this newly acquired one.

Damn it.

Madame Christmas tipped her glass back, the soothing sensation of high-quality bourbon pouring down her throat sending an immediate burst of warmth through her strangely uneasy mind.

She thought she'd already let go all those years ago, when he'd signed up for the academy and obtained his State Alchemist certification. The baby raven now all grown up, wings fully spread to catch that first gust of wind.

 _But a mother never truly forgets._

* * *

Hawkeye neatly replaced the receiver and sighed soundlessly to herself.

Madame hadn't bought it. At least, not completely.

Despite the circumstances, she allowed herself a small smile. Roy had often remarked that she was too blunt and straightforward for her own good.

He would be proud though. She thought she'd delivered the lie with amazing professionalism.

 _Even though it is kind of crap, compared to how smoothly_ he _does it._

A soft creak announced the arrival of a (or in this case, two) visitors. Hawkeye didn't have to turn around to know that the Elric brothers were already wide awake and taunt with edgy anticipation.

"Who was that?" asked Edward, pawing at the bandage around his forehead with an irritated scowl on his face. Hawkeye knew from experience that his healing wound was probably itching by today – she would've ordered him to get his bandages changed at the small local hospital, but Ed seemed to be permanently stuck in his default setting of 'seriously annoyed teenager' and she really didn't have the extra energy to threaten him into anything.

"Madame Christmas." answered Hawkeye neutrally.

"Who –" Edward frowned. "Wait…Isn't that –"

"The colonel's mom?" finished Alphonse, his eyes a pair of round golden orbs widened to the size of plates.

"Foster mother." corrected Hawkeye. "She's good with information. And no –" she shot a quick glance at Edward, who had his mouth half-open in preparation to voice a question. "I didn't tell her."

Ed snapped his mouth shut. "Oh. Okay."

Before the weird atmosphere could deteriorate even further, there was another creaking of moving hinges – this one emanating from the main door.

Breda's head appeared next to the doorframe. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Where's Havoc?" asked Hawkeye, getting right down to business even as Breda slipped into the living room, already dressed in full military uniform.

"He left with Falman and Fuery half an hour ago. Apparently Falman's lead about the missing waiter panned out."

Hawkeye raised an unamused eyebrow. "And letting the three of them go off alone _together_ is a good idea, _why?_ "

Breda blinked once. "Ah. I didn't think of that."

Hawkeye shook her head in resigned exasperation. "Never mind. Let's go, the shops should be open by now."

Edward seemed to perform a mental leap to his feet. " _Finally, w_ e're doing something! So I've given this some thought, and I was thinking that maybe it'll be faster if we dive right into talking to some automobile repair workshops. Maybe –"

"Edward." Hawkeye moved towards the door, checking the safety on her gun as was her habit every morning while she did so. "You're staying here."

Ed stopped dead in his tracks. "What?"

"We need someone to watch the phone in case the abductors establish contact again." answered Hawkeye, tone short and clipped, leaving no room for any illusions as to the nature of her statement.

This was not a request, but rather – an order.

Edward's face was turning an alarming shade of red. "But –" he started, fighting to keep his voice from rising even as he was failing spectacularly at it.

"I don't want to argue with you, Edward." Hawkeye shifted her head slightly, fixing Ed with a steely amber gaze. Even the Fullmetal Alchemist's infamous temper was almost instantaneously quelled. "It's just for a few hours. We'll be back shortly. Alphonse, stay with him."

Al blinked and raised a finger as if to say: _What? Me?_

Edward's already scowling face deepened further as he strode up to Hawkeye, still determined to fight for his clearly lost cause. "Hawkeye, you can't just –"

The words withered and disintegrated to dust in his throat when Hawkeye pulled open the door and almost rammed into the tall silhouette standing directly beyond their doorway.

Hawkeye froze in midstride, sherry eyes turning a full shade icier as she regarded their unexpected guest.

He smiled, and Edward stiffened. "A very good morning to you too, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Hawkeye straightened and saluted impassively. "Nowhere in particular, General Rourke."

* * *

 _Well, well – this trip just got a_ whole _lot more interesting._

Brigadier General Matthew Rourke coolly surveyed the scene before him with an easy smirk upon his countenance, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. Mustang's personal little chaperone, Riza Hawkeye, simply gazed evenly at him, but Rourke didn't miss the hint of uncertainty in her eyes; another one of his loyal dogs – the redhead lieutenant – went absolutely still, staring at Rourke in astonishment.

And of course, how could he forget the infamous Edward Elric, looking none too pleased and not even making an attempt at hiding the sheer hostility painted all over his face.

"A very good morning to you too, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Hawkeye saluted politely, but the tension in the air was all too palpable. The red-haired lieutenant – Second Lieutenant Breda – followed suit. "Nowhere in particular, General Rourke."

Rourke smiled, white teeth flashing like fangs. "Ah, I heard you cancelled our meeting with the Grand Cleric today. For the next _several_ days, in fact. Has Colonel Mustang taken ill?"

Hawkeye's gaze shifted ever so slightly. "It's nothing too serious. We thank you for your concern, general."

Rourke raised one eyebrow. Hawkeye remained firm and unmoving.

He then threw back his head and laughed. The sound echoed eerily down the deserted hallways.

" _Really_ now, Lieutenant Hawkeye? Are you _really_ going to waste precious time trying to lie to me?"

Edward Elric narrowed his eyes. Rourke would have been worried about the murderous glare currently being directed in his direction, but that was what Major Gabel – Rourke's nephew and recently appointed Amestrian State Alchemist – was standing just around the corner for. "What the _hell_ is so funny?"

"The fact that the lot of you weren't being all too discreet about your movements the previous night and now suddenly you're trying so desperately to cover it up." Rourke raised himself to his full height, towering almost half a head over Hawkeye as he peered mockingly around at their empty living room. "Besides, you were in an _awful_ rush coming back to the hotel last night, and I haven't seen Mustang since."

Rourke paused to direct an expectant stare at Hawkeye, but when she made no move to respond, he prompted her further: "So, where exactly _is_ Colonel Mustang?"

Hawkeye, for the first time since Rourke had met the cold sniper queen, seemed to waver. "I'm under orders not to reveal any information to outsiders."

"Why, lieutenant, you consider me an 'outsider'? I'm hurt."

"Get to the point, _general_." spat Edward vehemently. "We have more important things to do than stand around here bullshitting to your _face_."

"Brother." murmured Alphonse Elric, and Rourke had always found it hard to believe that _this_ was the intimidating suit of armour which had once trailed the Fullmetal Alchemist through the corridors of Central Command. The current Alphonse Elric seemed like a nervous shadow, almost constantly several steps behind his far more confident brother.

But now, even those mellow golden eyes were cold and reproaching, and Rourke decided that perhaps treating Alphonse Elric as the weakest link in the chain wasn't a good idea after all.

"Since you insist," drawled Rourke. "Then on my full authority as a brigadier general, I order you, Lieutenant Hawkeye, to tell me everything you know. No exceptions."

Hawkeye drew in a breath, amber eyes darting warily from side to side but unable to find a way out of this corner Rourke had put her in. "With all due respect, sir –"

"Fine." sighed Rourke dramatically. "Since you seem so adamant on being dishonest with me, I'll just have to take a guess." he smirked. "Tell me how close I am – at roughly 2000 hours last night, Colonel Roy Mustang was seen leaving the hotel in a black Ford Econoline van, no licence plates and tinted windows, with three men of assumed Ishvalan descent, one of which was the driver. And unless the Flame Alchemist is suddenly all snug and cozy with the Ishvalans, that does seem a little suspicious, no?"

The way the Fullmetal Alchemist's eyes went wide was almost comical. "How did you –"

Hawkeye cut him off mid-sentence, amber gaze intense and shimmering. "That is…an oddly specific guess, General Rourke."

Rourke's smirk widened. He beckoned to his nephew stationed a little ways down the corridor, out of general earshot, causing Gabel to start and meekly stride up to stand at his shoulder. "Major Gabel here was fortunate enough to have borne witness to this strange scene the previous night and had sense enough to make his findings known to me. Do I have your attention now, Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

Edward Elric's expression shifted from startled to full on livid. "HOLD ON A SECOND! YOU _KNEW_ SINCE LAST NIGHT AND YOU DIDN'T BOTHER TO TELL US ABOUT THIS!? YOU FUCKING SON-OF-A –"

The Fullmetal Alchemist took a step forwards, automail clanking and whirring menacingly. Rourke, despite himself, cautiously retreated. "Now Fullmetal, all that secrecy is going to be for nothing if you start shouting like that. Besides, I'm here and divulging this information with you all _now_ , aren't I? The least you could do is be thankful for that."

Rourke was expecting a mad lunge, hastily repressed by Second Lieutenant Breda and Alphonse, or an even louder bout of enraged screaming which never failed to amuse him. Instead, Edward Elric simply stiffened at Rourke's words. "Don't call me that."

Rourke arched a disinterested eyebrow, but he really had no idea what the boy was going on about. "Call you what?"

"Fullmetal." growled Edward dangerously. "Don't call me that."

"Fine, if you're so sensitive about it. Well, Lieutenant Hawkeye, don't you have anything to say?"

Hawkeye was silent for a brief moment, and Rourke could feel her eyes searching his face, so very very distrustful, but also so very _very_ desperate. "Forgive my bluntness, General Rourke. But what exactly are you hoping to achieve here?"

Rourke merely grinned, hurricane grey eyes flashing like a coming thunderstorm. "Nothing, lieutenant. Is it so hard to believe that I simply want to help a fellow comrade in danger? After all, it is my responsibility as his academy senior and colleague."

The two military officers and two teenagers standing before him remained resolutely still. Hmph, if he didn't know better, he'd say they weren't buying it.

"Ah well, I suppose a bit of honesty is warranted here." continued Rourke smoothly. "My purpose here is to offer you my support and assistance in your search for the Flame Alchemist. Make no mistake, my aim is straightforward and simple – Mustang would owe me a favour after this, and I simply find that to be rather…ah, useful. So, do we agree to a mutual collaboration?"

Hawkeye tipped her chin up, her eyebrows knitting together slightly. She may try to seem calm, but Rourke could tell – could sense how desperate they _all_ were at this point. While none of them had voiced out loud their purpose in keeping this entire unfortunate event under the radar, Rourke had already formed a pretty good guess.

Ironically, they were being stripped of external military assistance by their very loyalty to the state and the maintenance of its stability. And because of that, they needed every last extra pair of hands they could get.

And that was what made this so very, very entertaining.

"We would…" started Hawkeye slowly. "Certainly appreciate your kind assistance in this matter, General Rourke."

Rourke's grin deepened. "Perfect. Now, shall you brief me on your next plan of action?"

Edward gritted his teeth, and Rourke could tell that he was clearly unconvinced. "Hawkeye." he warned lowly.

"It'll be fine, Edward." she turned around, and her eyes softened when they met his, golden and earnest. "Take this chance to rest up well. It wouldn't do us any good if you were to collapse because of your injuries."

Edward lowered his head, almost shamefaced. He murmured something that sounded like vague acknowledgement.

Hawkeye whirled, the cool and professional second lieutenant once again. "Let's continue this conversation while we walk, general."

"Ah, certainly." agreed Rourke, casting a smugly satisfied look at that young and glowering face just before Hawkeye stepped out and shut the door.

 _Yes, yes, while Mustang being indebted to him was certainly an enjoyable notion._

 _Things were just so much more interesting when you were a partaker, instead of a mere observer._

And Rourke had just successfully forced his way into the very thick of it.

* * *

The sun was already a sweltering orb of burning flames in the cloudless cobalt sky by the time the three sweaty and absolutely miserable military officers had emerged on the very edge of Sersa's still-inhabited land.

"Who knew summer could be so _hot_ out here?" complained Havoc.

"We're an hour's drive from the desert proper, Havoc. Get used to it." commented Falman, scrubbing a sleeve across his forehead – from the freezing tundra of Fort Briggs to the scorching sands of the far East, the Warrant Officer really _had_ seen it all.

"The desert isn't necessarily alwayshot. In fact, temperatures can drop all the way down to subzero during nightfall." added Fuery enthusiastically.

Havoc and Falman both groaned in unison. "Fuery?"

"What?"

"We don't need a science lesson."

Fuery readjusted his glasses and averted his eyes to the ground as they trudged up the steep incline along a narrow dirt trail. "Sorry."

Havoc instantly felt bad for his teasing – he knew that Fuery tended to babble on more when he was nervous, just as Havoc himself liked to crack casual jokes when he was feeling antsy.

 _Please, just let this be a stupid nightmare._

But the searing rays of the sun currently beating mercilessly down upon their backs clearly begged to differ.

They'd left their car at the beginning of the narrow road leading out of Sersa and into the surrounding outskirts – it being too large and bulky to traverse the small dirt trail which seemed to have formed solely through many years of countless stampeding feet. At the top of the steep incline, they entered the deep jade shadows of a flourishing forest, the high boughs of the trees shading them from the sun and dousing them in refreshing coolness.

Just beyond the first bend in the dirt road, Havoc's keen eyes spotted a flash of brilliant red paint among the twisting trees as well the back of a uniformed man.

"Hello there!" called Havoc cheerfully.

The policeman turned around sharply at the second lieutenant's voice, hand reflexively falling to rest on his gun.

Havoc raised his hands in a show of goodwill. "At ease. We come in peace."

"Gods, Havoc." muttered Falman, embarrassed over his own colleague's childish antics. "Officer Johnson, thank you for your call this morning. We rushed over as soon as we could."

"Ah, Warrant Officer…Falman, was it?" Officer Johnson removed his hand from his holster and folded his arms across his chest instead. In his clear blue eyes there lingered that hint of suspicion Amestris's rural communities used in regarding anyone wearing the Amestrian military colours. Havoc had never really understood that apprehension, though he guessed that the military certainly _had_ done a number of questionable things over the years and deserved some amount of distrust from its citizens.

"Yes. Let me introduce Second Lieutenant Havoc and Sergeant Major Fuery."

Havoc half-raised his arm to offer a hand in greeting, but the local policeman seemed so thoroughly annoyed at being called into working overtime over the likes of the state military that Havoc let it drop.

"So, Warrant Officer Falman, we may have found the suspect whom you were looking for." Officer Johnson suppressed a yawn even as he muttered those words. "You filed in a police report for a theft conducted by a man of this description last night. If I'm not mistaken, you said that…" the officer glanced down at the shaft of papers clutched in his hands. "Several crucially important military documents had been stolen from your hotel."

Those blue eyes snapped upwards to glance at Falman in mild exasperation, like ' _I missed out on my precious sleep for_ this _?_ '.

Havoc raised an eyebrow and had to muffle a chuckle behind his hand. _Important military documents? Yeah right._

Falman was sharper than a tack, Havoc had to give the silver-haired warrant officer that. While they couldn't directlyenlist the police's assistance in locating the colonel, they could very well _indirectly_ borrow some of their manpower to further their investigation.

Officer Johnson beckoned to them, and the three military officers followed him at a slow gait as he shuffled the papers in his hands. "This man was pulled over by myself and my partner while we were conducting vehicle inspections this morning. He was acting in a very suspicious manner, and he matched your description almost perfectly. But when we tried to take him back to the station for questioning, he simply accelerated off the main road, nearly ramming us over in the process, and sped towards the trees. By the time we caught up to him, he'd already skidded off the trail and crashed."

The officer then gestured to the scene which had materialized before them with a graceful flourish, and Havoc merely stared at the half dented car, painted an absolutely horrendous shade of blood red, its bonnet smoking and crushed beneath the fallen boughs of an old oak tree. A second officer had been standing guard at the scene, and Havoc could just make out a vague humanoid silhouette slumped over the steering wheel.

"We don't think he's hurt, but he straight out refused to get out of the car and locked his vehicle when we tried to apprehend him by force." Officer Johnson shrugged. "That's when I called you."

The look in his eyes was a clear expression of his sentiment: _I caught your guy, so now any problems that may come with him are all_ yours _, thank you very much._

Havoc and Falman edged closer to the decimated car, Fuery lagging behind uneasily. A young man was sitting in the driver's seat, very much alive and awake, looking bored out of his mind as he drummed fingers over the leather surface of the wheel. He was probably hoping that the police would simply give up and leave him alone at some point.

Havoc drew out the piece of paper on which Edward had hand-sketched a portrait of the mysteriously vanished waiter and held it out in front of him, glancing to the side to compare the two faces. "Huh. They aren't really similar."

Falman resisted the urge to facepalm – the drawing in Havoc's hands was way below the skill of an average kindergartener, the 'face' a disproportionate shape a little too large for the 'neck', consisting of squiggly lines and two egg-shaped circles for the eyes.

Gee, Edward.

Falman then produced a neatly organized notebook, thumbing through to the page where he'd sketched a more visually distinguishable portrait based on Edward's description, and flipping it around to shove it in Havoc's face.

Havoc blinked once, stared at the much more professionally executed sketch, and back up at the young suspect's face.

He nodded solemnly, sky blue eyes suddenly serious. "That's our guy."

Dropping a hand to the gun on his waist, Havoc cautiously approached the undamaged driver's side.

The young man didn't even notice Havoc's presence until the lieutenant had thumped a fist on the metal roof of his car. Havoc leaned down so his face was visible through the window. "Yo, mind answering a few questions for us?"

The man stared at Havoc for a full second, his eyes drifting to rest on the military stripes decorating his shoulders.

What he did next Havoc had not predicted.

Sliding easily into the adjacent passenger seat, he kicked open the car door, dove in between the two startled police officers, and took off at a dead run towards the woods.

* * *

"State military! Freeze! You're under arrest!" yelled Havoc at the rapidly retreating back of their primary suspect.

He groaned. "Why do they _always_ run?"

"Did you honestly _expect_ that to work?" asked Falman incredulously.

"Aww, shut up." snapped Havoc, vaulting effortlessly over the car bonnet and sprinting after their suspected perpetrator.

Havoc shoved and forced his way through the thick foliage, barely slowing down even as the sharp ends of broken branches tore at his military jacket and hanging leaves slapped at his cheeks. His handgun was already drawn and cocked, and Havoc used it to bat away a curtain of sticky vines as he struggled to keep the running figure within sight.

Falman, to his surprise, was right on his heels, puffing and panting as he strained to keep up with Havoc's easy leaps and bounds.

The second lieutenant risked a glance behind him to gesture to Falman, motioning for his partner to veer off to the side and cut off their prey.

Falman nodded once and swerved, disappearing from sight in the green underbrush.

The pathway which they'd used to trek up to the forest had long since disappeared, and Havoc couldn't even catch his bearings – were they travelling north, or east, or south? Ah, what the hell.

For a heart wrenching moment, Havoc thought he'd lost sight of the waiter – but he was lucky that the forest floor was littered with bits of rotten branches, and the telltale snap of a twig was all Havoc needed to point him in the right direction.

His breath was coming out in short bursts and gasps now. Havoc knew he needed to pace himself, but still he pushed further, slapping on a new burst of speed as he leapt over a fallen log. The flash of a white T-shirt was visible merely several metres ahead, and Havoc raised his gun, but it was nigh impossible to aim properly when one was engaged in a hot pursuit through a bumpy forest terrain.

A flicker of silver and blue, and Havoc nearly stopped still in astonishment as Falman came charging out of the adjacent trees, slamming his shoulder into the side of their suspect.

He yelped as Falman tackled him to the ground, feet slipping on half-rotten humus and slimy moss.

Havoc pushed himself harder, rapidly closing the distance.

Falman scrabbled for his gun as he struggled to pin the thrashing man down, only to be awarded a painful elbow in the face. Falman fell back, head slamming into the hard bark of an old tree trunk. And just like that, their captured lead had once again escaped, bounding off over twisting roots and creeping ivy like a deer.

"Hey!" Havoc called out as he passed the fallen warrant officer. "You okay?"

Falman waved a hand feebly and croaked out: " _Go._ "

Havoc dashed after the man, every last muscle and nerve in his legs protesting for oxygen and rest.

A dull roar, beyond the undergrowth – the sound approached him, closer and closer, or maybe he was the one approaching its source. Havoc blinked, wondering if his exhausted mind was playing tricks on him.

All of a sudden, he emerged out of the trees and onto the edge of a rocky outcropping, azure eyes widening at the sight spread out before him – a gushing waterfall, its opening several yards beneath the ledge, spewed turquoise water over the lip of a sheer granite face. Hundreds of gallons of pure water crashed into a bubbling stream nearly three stories down, white and frothing like new sea foam.

And standing at the very edge – the missing waiter, their sole lead to this baffling mystery.

Havoc steadily raised his gun and took aim, chest heaving in and out as his lungs embraced the cool forest air. "I've…got you…now. Don't move!"

The young man had been gazing over the edge, staring down at the thunderous waterfall. At Havoc's command, he turned around, green eyes flashing. It was hard to tell in the shadows of his car and throughout the long chase through the dense wood, but Havoc could now say for certain that his hair was a shade of deep russet brown.

"Jeez. You…military types sure are…persistent." he struggled to get the words out as he gasped for breath.

"Come quietly and there won't be any trouble." warned Havoc, voice low as he edged carefully towards his cornered suspect.

The man simply shook his head and chuckled softly. "I wish I'd known what I was getting myself into when I signed up for this. Just a fake phone call, they said! Heh, if only." he cocked his head, arching an eyebrow at Havoc. "Unfortunately, I have absolutely no plans of getting caught – not now, not ever."

Havoc took an urgent step closer, fingers clenching around the sleek metal form of his gun. "Wait, don't –"

But before Havoc could make his move, the man spread his arms like a fallen angel and propelled himself off the cliff-edge.

Plummeting. A flightless bird. Down, down, down.

Havoc watched in horrified awe as the man's slender form disappeared into the white mist and spray below.

Havoc keeled over, slamming his fist into the hard gravel in frustration.

" _Darn it._ "

* * *

The waiter, who we shall now know purely by the name of Damien, never really regarded himself as a criminal of any sort.

Sure, he had his bad days milling with the wrong crowd, but a few spray-painted walls and broken windows weren't really going to cause anyone permanent harm. So he'd gotten a decent job as a server at a pretty glamorous-ass hotel – good pay grade, minimal nights, overtime when he needed the cash.

And then along came a spider – or in his case, an Ishvalan man, offering him a neat sum of money in exchange for a simple deed.

 _You see that boy over there? Yes, the short one with the braided golden hair. His name is Edward Elric, and you are going to tell him that he has a phone call…_

Really, he should have seen this coming. Messing with a couple of State Alchemists was literally like taking a shortcut to fast-approaching doom.

But Damien was smart. No way was he letting those military people catch him. He knew better than to stick around and watch the fireworks.

Better to hightail it outta there ASAP.

Damien glided easily through the icy water, sinewy, well-muscled arms stroking forwards and back again, creating resonating ripples which broke the otherwise mirror-smooth surface.

He swerved and made for the shore, fingers and toes grappling on water-worn gravel as he dragged himself out of the serenely winding stream.

Damien groaned and plopped back-first onto drier ground, lying spread-eagled on the pebbly shore as the water continued to lap at the soles of his bare feet.

He shut his eyes and sighed, mourning the loss of his favourite shoes somewhere along the way of his impromptu swim. Damn the Amestrian military.

 _Click._

Damien opened his eyes.

He raised himself on his elbows, slowly turning his head only to find himself staring down the pitch black barrel of a military-issued handgun.

"Don't…don't move." commanded the young sergeant on its firing end. His fingers were clenched so tightly around the trigger Damien was more concerned that he'd be shot dead by accident rather than on purpose. Nervous black eyes stared down at him through a pair of thick round glasses.

 _You have got to be kidding me._

 _Really, what kind of standards does the military set for recruits nowadays?_ Damien found himself thinking as he continued to stare coolly at the locked and loaded gun. _They should be more concerned with quality control._

For this kid, though Damien had a feeling he was older than his almost child-like appearance implied, was obviously one of those office desk types. His fingers, pale and long and slender, tips smooth and un-calloused from the absence of repeatedly pulling the trigger of a handgun or rifle, had probably never delivered death at point-blank range.

Damien climbed to his feet. The sergeant started and took a wary step back, gaze never leaving Damien's drenched figure.

"I told you not to move!" he called out, readjusting his grip on the gun. His hands were trembling – he took a breath, and they steadied.

Damien raised an almost sympathetic eyebrow and shook his head. "You can never fire that gun." he stated a-matter-of-factly.

The sergeant swallowed. "I've fired guns before."

"No, I know your type. Perhaps you may be able to pull that trigger in a life-or-death situation, when your life or another's is under threat." Damien spread out his hands in a mocking manner. "But _directly_ hurt another human being? An _unarmed_ human being? I can see it in your eyes – the thought of being the cause of another person's pain nauseates you, doesn't it?"

The dark haired sergeant didn't reply. He simply gazed straight at Damien, every last bit of mental effort seeming to have been dedicated to keeping his gun steady.

Damien snorted. "Thought so."

He turned around and started walking away.

"Don't move."

Damien didn't look back – just kept walking along the shoreline. He raised a hand in a satirical half-wave. "See you around – _not_."

The sergeant had fallen silent. The forest was still save for the soft gurgling of running water and the crunch of Damien's feet on loose sand.

There was no warning when it came.

A deafening gunshot split the air, amplified tenfold amongst the crowded trees.

A gasp of surprise tore from Damien's throat as red hot agony tore through his lower right leg. Damien collapsed onto the ground, clutching the bleeding wound in the back of his knee as he stared wide-eyed up at the sergeant with the gun, its muzzle still smoking.

"You –" Damien clenched his teeth from the pain and howled in anguish. "You _freaking_ shot me!"

The sergeant approached him calmly, gun aimed steadily for Damien's forehead. The dark eyes behind his glasses were a pair of cold glass shards.

"I told you." said the sergeant quietly. "Don't move."

* * *

Warrant Officer Vato Falman leaned into the backseat of their car and massaged his aching ankle with much despondency.

Havoc's head and body appeared in the open car door. "You should get some ice for that once we reach town."

Falman groaned and tenderly put his foot down. "It's just a sprain."

Havoc sighed, looking not much better off than Falman himself – both military officers were covered in a thick film of sweat and dirt, a combination which left Falman feeling both sticky and absolutely filthy.

Fuery appeared at Havoc's shoulder. "The police are taking our waiter into custody right now. Apparently we are welcome to interrogate him at the police station."

Falman made a small sound akin to that of a dignified snort. "Of course. The police were _plenty_ of help when Havoc and I were chasing him up the damn mountain."

Fuery shrugged meekly. "To be fair, this is our problem, not theirs."

Havoc turned and grinned widely around his cigarette, cheerfully delivering a loud clap on Fuery's unguarded back. The sergeant major yelped and nearly doubled over from the sheer force. "Fuery! The man of the hour!"

"What?" squeaked Fuery in apprehension, replacing his skewed glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose.

"If it weren't for you, who knows where our suspect would be right now?" Havoc shook his head wryly. "Certainly not safely in police custody, that's for sure. More like halfway across the desert and heading towards Xing."

"It was just a lucky guess." said Fuery hastily, already flushing from the praise. "I know the general terrain of the area – and you just happened to be heading in the direction of the waterfall. I didn't really expect to find him at the bottom of it."

Falman smiled gently, offering Fuery an approving nod. "But youcaught him, Fuery. Not Havoc, not myself, not even Hawkeye – but _you_."

Havoc chuckled and slung an arm around Fuery's shoulders, instantly dwarfing the slender-framed sergeant. Fuery groaned as he nearly collapsed underneath Havoc's full weight.

"We're so proud of you, Fuery." Havoc was still grinning uncontrollably from ear to ear as he ruffled Fuery's hair affectionately. "Our little kid is finally growing up."

Fuery smiled up at Havoc, but the glimmer in his eyes dimmed.

He slipped quietly out of Havoc's grip. Falman's even gaze followed Fuery's every move as the sergeant's fingers picked anxiously at the frayed edges of his uniform. He bit his lip and voiced softly:

"If a crisis is what it takes to grow up, then I'd rather not grow up at all."

* * *

 _It had been too long since he'd gone in there._

 _Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, sat against the wall and fiddled his thumbs – cold, unfeeling automail brushing warm, living skin. Alphonse Elric was standing opposite his elder brother, so still that one could easily have mistaken him for a decorative suit of armour instead of a soul-bounded one._

 _It was the height of summer, and the stuffy corridors of East Command seemed to steam and shift like a mirage in the stifling hot air. Edward scowled and tore off his cloak, bundling the tough red fabric up in his lap. As armour didn't generally come equipped with sensory receptors, Al couldn't tell the difference between hot and cold, but he gravely noted his brother's movements and strode over –_ CLANK CLANK CLANK – _to open a window._

 _A feeble summer breeze rasped against Edward's cheeks. It didn't really make him feel any cooler, but Ed raised his head to offer Al an appreciative smile nonetheless._

 _The magnificently engraved doors at the end of the hallway creaked open, and a familiar figure in Amestrian blue stepped out, polished shoes clicking crisply against the smooth marble tiling._

 _Edward shot to his feet, trying not to act like a guilty man awaiting the gallows. Colonel Roy Mustang stopped short at the sudden flash of gold, and the voice which drifted across to Edward was cool and sarcastic. "FullmetaI. I didn't expect you to still be here."_

 _Ed smoothly decided to ignore the jibe and strode haughtily up to him. Stopping directly in front of the colonel, Edward stuck out his chin stubbornly and rose himself up to his full height – which was, compared to Mustang, still shorter by about a head and three-quarters. This,_ this _was one of the reasons why he absolutely despised the colonel – yes, Edward_ knew _that he was naturally tall (Edward blamed genetics) but did he_ have _to rub it in every five seconds?_

 _"So?" demanded Edward sharply._

 _"So?" repeated Mustang, crossing his arms. "It's settled."_

 _Edward blinked once, brain spluttering to a stop. "Wait,_ what _?"_

 _"You heard me, it's settled." Mustang sighed and rolled his eyes to the heavens in exasperation. "But_ seriously, _Fullmetal? Of all the noses in the whole of Amestris that you could smash in, it_ had _to be the one belonging to General Edison's son-in-law."_

 _"Hey!" protested Edward, offended. "I 'smash in' a lot of noses. It's not my fault that they sometimes belong to the relative of some hot shot general. And besides," Ed's voice grew cold. "The guy had it coming. He nearly ran over a little girl on the street and he didn't even bother to apologize!"_

 _"Fullmetal." intoned Mustang patiently. "We've talked about this. If you go around punching the lights out of_ every _asshole you come across you wouldn't even have time leftover to sleep, much less find the Philosopher's Stone."_

 _Damn, no fair._

 _The colonel always seemed to know exactly what to say to make Edward shut up and calm down. And ninety percent of the time, it had something to do with his responsibility to Alphonse and their search for the Red Stone._

 _So Edward's mouth snapped close and he dipped his head, glaring a burning hole into the floor as he fumed silently. "You know, I could have handled it myself."_

 _He couldn't see Mustang's face, but the colonel's tone was now unmistakably sardonic. "_ Sure _you could. And you would have ended up thrown into jail for a year and_ then _you'll come running to me crying for help."_

 _"Shut up, Colonel Bastard." snapped Edward heatedly. "I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need your help for_ anything _."_

 _Mustang merely raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, lips curling into a humorous smirk. "Your height begs to differ. You don't even look your actual age of fourteen."_

 _"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE NEEDS A CAR SEAT TO LOOK OUT THE WINDOW?!" raged Edward._

 _Edward's famous rants have cowed even the hardiest and grittiest criminals in all of Amestris, so the boy couldn't quite comprehend why the colonel remained so firmly unaffected by them._

 _Alphonse – who had learnt from prior experience that it was generally better to stay far, far away from any conversations between Edward and Mustang, as every one of them had the potential to blow up in the face of an unfortunate bystander – stepped in now. "Brother." he scolded sternly. "The colonel was just trying to help us."_

 _Edward inhaled deeply and blew out an irritated breath, temper successfully reined in, at least for the time being. "How did you do it?"_

 _Mustang cocked his head. "Do what?"_

 _"How did you get General Edison to let me off so easily?" asked Edward, feigning nonchalance even as his blood pounded in his veins._

 _Not even an apology letter? This_ reeked _of fishiness._

 _Edward often never noticed how warm Mustang's obsidian eyes were until times like this – when the wall slid up and they grew almost impossibly frigid, glazed over with an impenetrable layer of ice. The man shrugged. "The name of the Flame Alchemist still means something around here. General Edison was happy to…reconsider his punishment for you on account of your inexperience and youth. But as always, he does expect a few favours done in return." Mustang smiled. "Equivalent Exchange, isn't it?"_

 _Edward swallowed and pressed his lips together._

Idiot. Can't you tell when you're being taken advantage of?

But of course – of course he knew.

 _"Anyway," Mustang waved a dismissive hand – the ice was broken, and the familiar smirk was back. "Leave the adult world to the adults. You don't have to get those hands soiled just yet – that's what I'm here for."_

 _Edward scowled fiercely. "Aren't you going to be mad at me?"_

 _"There's no reason for me to. I know you had Amestris's best intentions at heart, even though your way of showing it may cause me more trouble than you're worth." Mustang shook his head and leaned forward._

 _What he did next caught Edward wholly off-guard._

 _Mustang reached out one gloved hand and ruffled the top of Edward's hair, grinning crookedly. "Act a bit more like your age sometimes, will you?"_

 _Edward started back, hands raised protectively over his head. "Try that_ one _more time," he snarled. "And I'll kick your bastardly ass into next Saturday."_

 _Mustang chuckled, and Edward was dismayed that he never took any of his threats seriously. "I would like to see you try, Fullmetal." he walked past the Elrics, nodding once to Alphonse as he did so. "Well, I should be getting back. Don't forget that report you're supposed to hand in tomorrow."_

 _Edward watched his receding back, hands still attached to his head. He dropped them to his sides and clenched his teeth. "C–colonel!"_

 _Mustang stopped and turned so that only half of his face was visible. "What?" he asked idly._

 _Edward opened his mouth, but nothing came out._

Why? Why are those words – two simple syllables – so difficult to say aloud?

 _He bit his lip, breathed in, and called out: "Don't slack off on your paperwork! It would be such a pain if we had to clean up the bloody mess after Hawkeye's done with you."_

" _Don't slack off on your research either, Fullmetal. The sooner you find the Stone, the sooner I'll never have to see you again." Mustang returned promptly, turning back around and striding down the corridor even as he raised a hand in vague goodbye._

" _I'm looking forward to that day!" Ed cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled after him._

I guess I never did manage to say it, in the end.

* * *

Edward snapped awake on the colonel's couch.

He blinked, staring up at the sluggishly revolving ceiling fan. He raised his right hand to his face, studying it with dull fascination – no longer metal, but rather skin and bone and flesh.

 _A memory…then._

Ed let his hand drop over his eyes.

"Damn it." he swore viciously.

Alphonse perked up from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, a book in his lap. "What is it, brother?"

"Damn it, Al. I can't – I can't remember." Ed turned around, staring at Alphonse with something like desperation in his golden eyes. "Please tell me you remember, Al. Tell me you remember at least _one_ time I've _actually_ said 'thank you' to him."

Al met his older brother's gaze. "Brother…" he intoned quietly.

Edward slumped heavily back down onto the cushions. "I can't – What if this is how it ends, Al? Just like Nina. Like Hughes. Walking in that door one day and finding out that they're gone and we _couldn't save them_." Ed was very close to screaming out his frustration now. "What if –"

Warm fingers clenched firmly around his right arm. Edward stopped in mid-rant to blink at Alphonse, who was crouched down next to the sofa.

Al's expression was electric and alight – a match struck just behind his eyes. "It won't, brother. We won't let it."

Ed clenched his jaw. "How can you be so sure, Al?"

"Because this time, it's different." said Alphonse. "This time, we're _here_ and we can do something."

Edward sat up slowly, pushing his messy golden strands of hair out of his eyes.

 _We're here and we can do something._

Pulling back the majority of his long hair, Edward's fingers swiftly and nimbly moved to secure it in his trademark braid.

"Okay." said Edward, swinging his legs off the couch and meeting Al's determined gaze. If anything, the nap had certainly done his head injury good – and Edward felt like the world was suddenly a thousand times clearer instead of being submerged underneath a thousand feet of water. "Okay, Al. What can we do?'

Alphonse smiled at his brother and snapped his book shut. "Falman just called with an update on that missing waiter."

Edward widened his eyes. Al nodded with resolve.

"So for starters, we could make our way down to the police station."

* * *

These people were obviously amateurs.

Damien wasn't going to be frightened into loosening his tongue after a few almost pitifully horrible good-cop-bad-cop attempts.

The blonde lieutenant – Havoc, he recalled – was scowling aggressively at him. "You know, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go home to wherever you belong."

Damien rolled his eyes. Good try, but he wasn't falling for it. "I have the right to remain silent." he said robotically – the exact same response he had offered to their every question since the past two hours. "I want my lawyer."

The lieutenant slammed his hands down on the interrogation table. Damien simply gazed at him evenly. "Stop playing games with us, darn it."

"I want my lawyer." repeated Damien.

Falman – the silver-haired and straight-faced warrant officer – stood up from where he'd been observing the interrogation from the side of the table. "We're wasting time here, Havoc."

Havoc gritted his teeth. "I know that."

Damien smiled despite himself. They couldn't do anything to him – not with the police officers outside who could hear his cries for help if they _did_ try something.

He laid his handcuffed hands on the table and leaned forward smugly – but that smugness was instantly shattered when the heavy metal door slammed open and in strode two teenagers, all golden hair and equally golden eyes.

Damien's eyes went wide. He recognized the first one – _crap._

Fuery turned around in surprise. "Edward? Alphonse? How did you –"

"The officer outside let me in once he recognized me as the Fullmetal Alchemist." Edward replied easily as he strode up to the middle of the room. "I guess that name still has _some_ weight around these parts."

His molten eyes snapped around then to stare frigidly at Damien.

It took all of Damien's willpower not to start guiltily. The Fullmetal Alchemist – of _course_ he'd heard the stories…

"So, we meet again." Edward Elric hoisted himself casually onto the edge of the table, and those eyes – Damien swore they burned with hellfire.

"I have the right to remain silent." replied Damien uncertainly.

"Of course you do." The Fullmetal Alchemist smiled wickedly.

 _Oh no._

He was beginning to have a _very_ bad feeling about this.


	11. Chapter 10 - Lex Talionis

**Author's Note:  
**

 **So I'm literally doing this on an airplane now while waiting for take-off (long story) so I'll make this short.**

 **Firstly, I'm _so_ sorry for not posting last week without prior notice. Things have been...hectic around here, to say the least. I promise I'll try my best to give people a heads-up, like what I'm doing now: I probably won't be able to post next week either. I'll try my best.**

 **Secondly, this fic just reached 50 followers! I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their great support! Keep those reviews/follows coming! XD**

 **(I'll reply to guest reviews and reviews later, for now, till next time!)**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own!**

* * *

 _Chapter 10 – Lex Talionis_

It all started off as a normal day at work – dull, dreary and tediously monotonous.

The officer stationed outside the police interrogation room yawned and propped his feet up on his desk. It had been a slow day, even by small-countryside-town-Sersa's standards.

Only one suspect had been interviewed since this morning – in fact, said suspect was still cooped up in there, and had been for the past two or three hours.

Flipping open the newspaper in his lap, he thumbed lazily through the pages as he reached for his mug of hot coffee – _East City Badminton Advances to Nationals, International Relations Furthered by Visiting Xing Diplomats, An Interview with Fuhrer Grumman – Future Plans for Amestris, The Flame Alchemist Pushes The Ishvalan Restoration Program_ …et cetera, et cetera. Boring, boring, boring.

"Hey, you." a hand grasped the edge of his newspaper and yanked it downwards. The officer nearly spilled his coffee as he was yanked down with it. "Is that your only interrogation room?"

The officer glanced up at the person who had posed him this question, the irritated glare he'd been preparing to shoot in his direction faltering as he stared at the young boy whose fingers were still clutched around his paper.

He wasn't particularly tall, to put it mildly, and looked around seventeen, eighteen at most. The teenager was dressed in the most unusual manner – black jacket and red billowing cloak, his golden braid swinging back and forth as he bounced restlessly on the balls of his feet. A second boy, so identical in hair and eye colour to the first that they could only be brothers, observed placidly at his shoulder.

"It's our only occupied one." answered the dumbfounded officer, the notion that he should currently be escorting this obviously civilian boy out of the station completely forgotten in his astonishment.

The boy let go of his newspaper and nodded. "Thanks!" Striding quickly towards the heavy metal door of the interrogation room, he reached for the handle and twisted it open.

The officer scrambled to his feet. "Whoa! Wait, you can't go in there –"

A hand on his shoulder brought his confused protests to a halt.

"Let him be, Dexton." his senior and superior, Officer Johnson, materialized out of nowhere to position himself beside the younger man. "He's military."

Officer Dexton gawked. "That _kid?_ Military?"

Johnson looked at him in puzzlement. "Ah, I forget that you're a new arrival from Creta. Now, my young, inexperienced friend, if you plan on surviving till a ripe old age in Amestris, there is one rule you must always adhere to." he nodded solemnly. " _Never_ cross the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Dexton blinked. Johnson patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Just…sit back and watch what happens."

Right on cue, a piercing scream reverberated through the closed metal door.

Dexton started like a frightened cat. The bustling outer office instantly hushed as every last police officer looked up from their assigned desks, shrugged in unison, and went studiously back to work. The busy sounds of phone calls being made and answered, paper being fed and regurgitated by their only photocopier, pens being scribbled on rough notepads, resumed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened – nothing at all.

Dexton casted an uncertain glance in Johnson's direction. Officer Johnson simply moved one shoulder up and down with measured nonchalance. "Get back to work, officer."

If an undersized teenager could inflict such fear among the general population – Christ, what kind of hellish place _was_ Amestris?

* * *

It all started off as a normal day on the peaceful streets of Sersa – quiet, unexciting, and sweltering from the high afternoon sun.

That is, until –

"PUT ME DOWN, YOU HEAR ME? THIS IS A VIOLATION OF MY RIGHTS! I SWEAR, I'LL –"

The bout of enraged screaming which could be clearly heard even a good three stories down at street level, turning curious heads and craning necks, was instantly cut off in a crackle of blue light.

Alphonse Elric raised his hands from the platform he'd transmuted from the cement walls of the police station, regarding first the gaping hole in the side of the interrogation room, its edges so crisp and neat it could only have been a product of alchemy, then the young man he'd entrapped in a large fist made of stone, his legs dangling in midair as he strained and yelled through the strip of transmuted cement Al had wrapped firmly around his mouth.

There was no denying it now.

Colonel Mustang was going to be so _mad_ when he heard about this.

Al himself was surprised at his own capriciousness – usually Edward was the one with a complete disregard for the rules, leaving Al as the 'responsible younger brother' who tried to limit the amount of damage Ed went around inflicting on a daily basis.

But it was either this or let Edward hang their suspect out of a window in front of a roomful of police officers (owing to the fact that the interrogation room didn't have a window).

Frankly, Al felt a little better being the one holding the reins for once. At least he knew that _he_ wouldn't drop a person from the top of a three story building.

Probably.

But of course, their suspect – hotel waiter Damien Waters – was none the wiser.

Edward gestured to Al. The younger Elric raised an eyebrow.

Ed shrugged, and there ensued a brief and silent conversation between the two brothers in which that renowned Elric telepathy was showcased. It went something like:

 _Are you sure about this, brother?_

 _Of course I am. I'm always sure about everything._

 _Really, brother?_

 _Okay, I promise I won't kill him._

 _Brother…_

 _Fine! I promise I won't permanently disable him either! Now, pretty please?_

Al clapped his hands and slapped them to their narrow, alchemized platform.

The wind whistled in his ears as Al recycled even more hard cement, feeding processed gravel and stone into his transmutation and causing their rectangular platform to stretch up, up, up – the imprisoned waiter with them.

Fifty meters above ground level, Al raised his hands and the moving platform slowed to a stop.

The strip of cement unwrapped itself from Damien Waters's mouth as he struggled and thrashed uselessly in the strangling grasp of Al's stone fist.

"I'll report you to the Fuhrer for this! This can't be in accordance with military regulations!" protested Waters.

Edward grinned viciously. "Who said anything about military regulations? From what I can see – you've just been snagged by two rogue _civilian_ alchemists."

The Fullmetal Alchemist directed a pointed glance down at the interrogation room, where Havoc, Falman and Fuery had congregated at the wide opening, staring up with eyes shaded underneath flattened hands.

At Edward's cue, Havoc promptly called up: "Oh no! Our suspect has just been abducted by some random alchemist whom I have absolutely no association to."

"What can we do against such a powerful enemy?" added Fuery helpfully.

"This is a disaster." deadpanned Falman unconvincingly.

Al resisted the urge to facepalm as Edward turned his full attention, wicked grin and burning eyes, back on Damien Waters. And having the full attention of Amestris's most notorious State Alchemist was a terrifying thing indeed.

"Look, sue me to hell and back for all I care." Ed's grin morphed into a dangerous scowl. "But you're not leaving here until I get some real answers."

Damien seemed to have regained his composure, even though Al didn't miss the way his eyes darted nervously down at the long, _long_ drop to his death. "What if I told you that I don't know anything?"

"Then you're lying." replied Edward flatly. The wind whipped through his braid, sending it flying to and fro like a golden pendulum. "I just happen to be acquainted with one of the best liars in the world, and he taught me a few tricks regarding the trade. Trust me, I can tell."

Damien cocked his head, unperturbed. "And what if I am? You wouldn't dare –"

Damien didn't even get the chance to complete his sentence before Edward nodded to Al, who breathed out an exaggerated sigh and clapped his hands.

The stone fist unclenched, releasing its trapped quarry.

Damien Waters fell, screaming like a banshee as he plummeted towards the pavement.

 _AHHHHHHHHH!_

Almost immediately, Al clapped his hands and slammed them to the ground. A small platform instantly slid out of the wall, stopping the waiter's descent before he could become a flattened pancake on the side of the road, or fall too far that he'd sustain irreversible damage.

Alphonse's own platform then spiralled downwards to come level with where Damien was sprawled on Al's skillful transmutation, eyes wide and bulging as he gasped for air like a fish out of water.

Edward stepped off their platform and onto his, leaning down to peer into his face. "Ahem. You were saying?"

Damien's terrified gaze snapped upwards. "You're _freaking_ out of your mind."

Edward shrugged and made a show of peering down casually at the street. "You still have about two stories to go – not quite high enough to kill you, if you make a good landing, but plenty high enough to break a few bones and such."

The golden-eyed boy swivelled around, and the smile stretching his countenance scared Damien witless. "So…where were we? Ah, I know, I was about to ask my lovely brother here to –"

Damien raised his hands in vague surrender. "Okay, okay! Holy crap, I'll talk, alright?"

Ed stepped back, arms folded and frown set firmly in place once more. Alphonse edged in closer to take up his customary position at his brother's side, brow furrowed. "Why don't we start with how are you associated with the people who took Mustang?" bit out Edward.

Damien sat up, clutching at his still-pounding heart. "I'm not _associated_ with those people in any manner. It's just business, you see? A few days ago, this Ishvalan man – rather respectable looking, around his mid-forties or fifties – came up to me after my shift and offered me a huge sum of money in return for two favours being done." Damien raised his fingers to punctuate his point. "One, I was to be their getaway driver during their mini shootout. The second set of instructions didn't come until later, when I was told to lure you away with a fake phone call. There were never any names involved in our transaction – the man simply paid me a third of the money as a deposit upfront, and I just received the rest of it this morning. Which was why I was in such a hurry to get out of town."

"Wait, you were _there_ when they were shooting at us?"

"I was in the car the entire time."

"How many people are involved?" asked Alphonse, eyes instinctively searching for any outward signs of deceit.

Damien shook his head. "I'm just the outside guy they hired to do their dirty work. The actual plan was never revealed to me, and I can't say for certain if I was dealing with a large group of people or just a small one. What I _can_ tell you, however, is that I came in contact with five people in total: the Ishvalan man, two boys and a girl close to their twenties – they were the three involved in the shootout, and a little girl."

"A little girl?" echoed Al, voice rising in astonishment.

"Yes. She's their scout and messenger of sorts. I've often seen her reporting your little group's daily movements to their ringleader." Damien cleared his throat. "That's all I know."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "That can't be it! Everything you've told us so far is pretty much useless!"

"Well, there _is_ one last tiny little thing." Damien smiled crookedly and raised a hand. "But not so fast. In return for my next piece of information, I want full amnesty in consideration of this being my first offence."

Edward glanced back at Alphonse, who shook his head mutely. The truth being – they weren't sure if Waters would even _be_ convicted without a crime to be convicted _of_ , with the truth behind his arrest still being kept under wraps from the local police.

"The most I can promise you is a lighter sentence." fibbed Edward smoothly. "A couple of years behind bars whittled down to just a few months. Sounds good?"

Damien shrugged and nodded, seemingly satisfied. "As I mentioned earlier, I'm simply the outsider – minimal contact with the main masterminds. But I did, however, manage to unintentionally overhear several tidbits of information that you may find most intriguing. One of them being…" he paused dramatically.

Ed bristled, and Al made sure to keep one wary eye on his brother just in case the need for quick restraint should arise. "Get to the point."

"In short, I know where they were planning to take him." Damien raised his chin smugly, observing the Elrics' reaction to his big reveal.

Ed's eyes went wide, before narrowing into a pair of golden slits. "Where?"

Damien turned around and stretched a single pale finger eastwards. " _There._ "

Edward worked his mouth. A bulging vein throbbed dangerously in his temple. "Bravo. That's _awfully_ specific of you."

Damien shook his head in mock disappointment. "You aren't looking far enough, Edward Elric. Think for a second, what's beyond the town in that direction?"

Edward raised his head, gazing out at the rickety sea of thatched roofs and squat buildings.

 _In that direction…_

It hit him then, a rolling impact which nearly sent him staggering with dread and heavy realization. A wreaking ball and a bucketful of cold water all at once.

"But that's –!"

…

* * *

"…Roy."

 _Sir?_

"Mr. Roy?"

 _Colonel Bastard!_

Roy groaned softly and sat up. His neck was cramping even worse than a full night spent slumped over a table.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

Roy blinked away the drowsiness of deep slumber. He had long since become accustomed to opening his eyes to darkness instead of sunlight, but that did not make the experience any less disorientating. He yawned once and stretched.

Bound feet and shackled hands.

What a lovely way to kickstart his day.

He sighed and tried to roll the stiffness out of his arms. "Asther?"

A rustle of skirts and a soft, cheerful voice. "Mr. Roy, I brought you breakfast – or well, lunch. It's nearly noon."

Roy smiled slightly in amusement, but it was a fleeting smile, quickly dropped when the full weight of his situation crashed mercilessly down on his sleep-frozen shoulders. The numbness of his shock had quite faded away along with the haze of drugs, and Roy was beginning to wish that he'd stayed asleep and blissfully ignorant.

"Your father didn't seem very happy the last time you visited me." reminded Roy gently. The truth being: he was ashamed for feeling glad that he _couldn't_ see her, the face of a motherless little girl – robbed of a family she'll never know because of him.

He wasn't ready, will never _be_ ready, to face his sins when they came in this shape and form.

" _Shh!_ " shushed Asther conspiratorially, executed in that prompt no-nonsense manner specific to eight-year-olds, causing Roy's lips to curve into another reluctant smile despite himself. "Papa is out and he left Big-Brother-Xander in charge. Xander is always nice to me, unlike my real brother." Roy could imagine her pouting. "Would you like some apple?"

"Oh." Roy nearly started back in surprise at the sensation of something being waved in front of his nose. The tart fragrance of freshly cut apple permeated the dusty smell of the air. Roy's stomach whined in complaint – strange, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt hungry.

Feeling strangely silly as he hadn't had to put up with the embarrassment of being _fed_ since his early blind-and-hospitalized days, Roy hesitatingly leaned forward and closed his teeth around the small piece of apple.

He chewed contemplatively and swallowed. "It must be difficult being the only girl in the house."

Information – and an almost painfully innocent candidate willing to offer it without resistance.

"No, there's still Xandria." There was some more rustling as Asther sat down next to him. "My cousin Xandria. She's really nice to me but mean to everyone else. Big-Brother-Xander, her twin, is just quiet all the time." Asther giggled. "Papa says she's not feeling well, so she can't come out of her room right now… But don't worry if you meet her. Xander always tells me that her bark is worse than her bite."

Not feeling well? Hawkeye _did_ tell him she'd hit one of their rainy-day-assailants…

"That sounds nice." replied Roy uncertainly. Making small talk with a child wasn't particularly his strong suit – just look at his relationship with Fullmetal. "Have you and your cousins always been living together?"

"Since they lost their family, yes." Asther's voice sobered as she held up another piece of apple. Roy obediently bit into it. "It's always been just us."

The two cousins, Asther and her brother, and Blake. Just five? Roy would be confident about slipping past them all if he'd still had his sight.

Unfortunately, that notion was sadly unachievable at the moment.

Roy chewed mechanically, his mouth awash with sweet juice. He swallowed. "Asther…" he stopped.

 _Stay away from me. Because whatever your brother or father told you, it's probably true._

In his mind it sounded right, correct, logical. But the conjured words would not translate into physical sound. Because the only reason Asther was still here and talking to him, was that she did not know – or knew but was unwilling to believe – the stark reality of what he'd done to her family.

Perhaps the worst part about the whole scenario was that he couldn't _remember_. He remembered District 27 of course, the flames and the smell – of burning, of death. But he couldn't recall coming face-to-face with those subjected beneath the raw might of his specialized alchemy on that occasion.

He was a soldier, a dog – the sole purpose of his existence was to obey without question. To snap and to set aflame what they wished, and to never have to set his eyes on the carnage he'd wrought if he chose not to. Did that make him a coward?

Before he could decide, Asther announced brightly: "If you're hungry, Mr. Roy, I'll get more food. I don't think I'm supposed to, but as long as Papa doesn't know it's alright."

In a flurry of clothes and a pattering of bare feet, Asther had bounded off again before Roy could utter a sound.

Left alone with his thoughts, Roy blew out a frustrated breath in between pursed lips and slumped back against the bitingly hard wall. Breaking out of his restraints was not the issue here, as there were intervals of time where he was left unguarded and unsupervised – apparently, a blinded and ostensibly incapacitated Flame Alchemist just didn't seem quite as dangerous. He could easily take advantage of one of these windows of opportunity to put his alchemy to use.

No, the issue was where would he _go_ after escaping his shackles? And for that matter, where _was_ he?

How would he get out of this place? What exactly was 'this place'? So many questions – all answerable with a simple sweep of the eyes, an ability which Roy was currently lacking in. All he could reliably discern about his current environment was that he was in a room (obviously), with a window (he could hear the wind blowing), which probably wasn't a basement (it couldn't be underground). Should he take his chances and make a break for the window? But what if it was barred or barricaded? What if he was five stories above ground and fell to his death?

Roy could visualize it now. This game of chess, a game which he'd played on both sides of the board, sometimes black and occasionally white; except that this time, he was the sole remaining piece – the lone king, standing undefended against five opposing pieces, rapidly approaching.

A king was thoroughly useless by itself, but he wasn't checkmated – not yet.

If he was to play, he would play with his own deck of cards. And right now, obtaining those cards meant waiting and observing.

So Roy shuffled into a less cramped position and waited.

The door at the far end of the room creaked open.

Roy started, but scolded himself into remaining calm. "Asther?"

A grunt – a _male_ grunt. Ringing footsteps. The kind of sound a person made when something heavy was being carried along.

Roy felt himself slowly go rigid. "Who's there?" he asked apprehensively.

There was no answer save for the stopping of footsteps directly in front of him. Roy almost shrank back against the wall in response to some deeply embedded instinct, but firmly held his ground nonetheless.

The sonorous clang of something metal being carelessly set down sounded, close enough that Roy's folded legs came in contact with its hardened surface. A sloshing of liquid, splashing into his lap and soaking his pants, the sound strangely disembodied and out of context in this amorphous space.

"I see you've been speaking to my sister." the voice came next, cool and jagged.

"Evan Blake." said Roy quietly in return.

Evan was silent for a moment. Roy tensed.

" _Lex talionis._ "

Roy frowned. "What?"

"Just know that you had it coming." answered Evan callously.

When it happened, it did without warning.

A hand shot down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, and before Roy could properly react, painfully shoved his head downwards.

His face was instantly met with numbing cold; the darkness stung his eyes. He gasped once in surprise, and quickly realized it to be a fatal mistake.

Water poured down his throat instead of air, filling his nose and lungs – his chest recoiled painfully; a single thought pounded through his head like a tape recorder stuck on repeat – he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't _breathe_.

Roy thrashed reflexively against the hands holding him down, the dread and anguish crushing his skull like a vice. His body launched into the fight-or-flight response, alchemical symbols flashing through his mind, too fragmented and distorted to be of any use – decomposition of water, hydrogen and oxygen, combustion and electrolysis – all overridden by the frigid cold on his skin and in his lungs.

He stayed under for another excruciating second before the hands yanked his head back, and Roy emerged, choking and gasping for sweet, sweet oxygen.

He barely had time to breathe before he was pushed back under again.

His struggles grew gradually feebler. His dark world was now one of frigid water and biting pain.

 _This was what it felt like to drown._

And all of a sudden, through the undecipherable haze of repeated actions – of up and down, above and under, breath and un-breath – a bizarre emotion, both familiar and foreign, struck Roy.

 _Fear._

* * *

Asther Blake dropped the plate she was carrying. It shattered on the ground, ceramic and all.

Something in Asther echoed, shifted, _broke._

"Brother!"

The cry was barely out of her mouth before she was by his side, slender hands wrapping around his arm. Fibrous muscles rippled underneath his drenched sleeve – since when had he become so _strong?_

Evan looked down at her as if just noticing her presence in the room. Their eyes connected – both a deep shade of red, of blood and of rubies – and Asther felt her heart constrict in terror at the pure, mirthless _delight_ shining through the crimson sheen of his gaze. And deeper still, beyond the layers of his hardened soul: a hatred which gleamed and hissed, a venomous serpent, its fangs already clamped firmly around his heart.

Asther clenched her jaw but refused to let go. The look in her big brother's eyes slowly morphed into unadulterated rage. "Asther! Let go!"

He swung. Asther hung on.

"Stop!" she pleaded, not sure what else to do or say. "Stop hurting him!"

Evan had to relinquish his grip on the colonel to pry Asther's fingers from his arm – Roy immediately collapsed against the wall, coughing violently as he threw up the water he'd swallowed onto the already soaked ground.

"Asther! Asther Blake!" Her brother's fingers were impossibly strong compared to hers. Asther was wrestled off his arm like a bothersome parasite and flung to the floor.

He towered over her, and Asther flinched away at the hot inferno, stoked and burning, behind his accusing glare. "When are you going to grow up and stop being such a brat?"

Asther shrivelled underneath the force of his furious words. Brothers weren't supposed to treat their little sisters in this manner, were they? But no – she was wrong, this was her fault. "I'm sorry, but –"

Evan reached down and grabbed her arms, hoisting her easily to her feet as if she weighed close to nothing. He held her firmly in place, and Asther wanted to escape that penetrating gaze so badly it hurt. "You don't believe me. Why won't you believe me? This… _person_ deserves every last shred of pain and misery for doing what he did to our _mother_!" he spat the word 'person' out like a black curse, a putrid disease.

Asther stared at her brother, terrified by this persona of righteous vengeance. "I can't…I don't…" she took a breath. "It can't be true."

It had all been so easy right up to this point.

It had been so much more straightforward when she could simply despise them all – the State Alchemists, the military, Amestris, _everyone_ – from the thin air of moral high ground. Because _she_ was the victim and _they_ were in the wrong. That was the one principle her father and brother had drummed into her head throughout these long, hard years.

They were wrong. Bad. Evil. Rotten to the core. And they deserved everything they had coming to them.

And yet, that was about the full extent of vengeance her little eight-year-old heart could comprehend. This concept of _right_ and _wrong_ – once solid, but in actuality impossibly fragile – now lay smashed and splintered at her feet.

But this – this can't be it.

This wasn't the face of the man who had killed her mother, who was responsible for the decimation of her home. _That_ man wore the visage-less mask of a monster, wreathed with flames and soaked with blood.

It wasn't _this_ – shivering and coughing against the wall, his dark hair hanging limply in grey eyes, legs drawn up to his chest in an almost protective gesture.

Not _this –_ the person who smiled when his amber-eyed lieutenant admonished him for not eating enough; who teased and laughed while a boy with golden hair and fiery eyes yelled at him with familiar annoyance; who joked playfully with his fellow men – all of whom operated within the well-worn emotional ruts of family.

Because he was a _human being_ – and _why did they have to hurt him_?

Not this. Not this.

Evan grasped her by the shoulders and whirled her around forcefully to face their captive. "Ask him then. _Ask him_."

Asther felt her throat go dry. No, she didn't want to know. She didn't want to know the answer.

"Mister…Roy?"

Her voice was but a shadow, an echo.

He heard anyway, raising his head wearily. His eyes were empty, and yet full of unbridled feeling. "Asther…" he pressed his lips together. "I'm…I'm sorry…"

Asther felt it again – that slip and shift as everything she knew and held dear was ripped from her torso and flung out the window. Except that this time, it didn't just break; it _shattered_ , a mirror image of her ceramic plate.

Evan dropped his arms to his sides, straightening and swaying unsteadily like a drunkard.

Asther pressed her hands to her eyes. This wasn't it. How could this be it?

And yet it was.

She turned and ran. Just as she always did.

Ran and ran and hid. Wishing feverishly that Truth and Reality wouldn't find her and drag her out by the heel.

For a while, at least, no one came looking for her.

* * *

It was nearing late evening, and Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye was finally tiring.

It wasn't that Sersa was a big town, the complete opposite, actually. The reason they'd taken hours just to cover the last five automobile shops – Riza analyzed jadedly – was simply because of the distrust and suspicion which the military in general was greeted with, not only in Sersa, but also in the many small rural towns dotting the Amestrian borders.

Information was difficult to obtain when people were reluctant to talk. Riza was beginning to wonder if it would be more efficient to forgo her uniform altogether and traipse around town in guise of a civilian.

It didn't matter now, anyway.

Riza gazed at the slightly rundown sign which announced the dingy shop as ' **CAR SE VICE A D REPAIRS** '. Some of the rusted metal alphabets had long since eroded away and fallen after years of constant exposure, and Riza suspected that the empty space above the half-complete letters once held a plague etched with the name of the person who ran the workshop.

She glanced quickly up at the rapidly darkening sky, slowly fading away into deep blue-purple from the bright azure of noon. The sun, to Riza, had always symbolized hope and promise – the dawning of a new day, and the resolve to make this day better than the last. But when the shadows grew long and the light dim, Riza could feel the nagging edges of uncertainty start to claw at the borders of her heart, the darkness creeping silently behind her footsteps.

What if she was wrong and Roy's message wasn't about a broken down vehicle after all? He'd always had a knack for being needlessly ambiguous.

Or what if Riza _was_ right but at the same time, she was being a fool by pursuing her lead in this manner? Just because their culprits ran into a problem with their transport didn't automatically mean that they'd take the risk of obtaining the help of a mechanic.

She'd have wasted all this time on nothing. Time better spent searching elsewhere, time which was rapidly running out like sand in an hourglass. Limited and precious.

The thought was unbearable to her. _Everything_ about this was unbearable to her.

Riza squared her shoulders, packing her uncertainties and doubts away into that same box where she kept her fears and grief, striding rigidly into the murky shop front, her footsteps the crisp and clipped gait of a seasoned soldier.

A second pair of footsteps, bored and casual, followed. Brigadier General Rourke had been rather silent since the past hour, and Riza could sense him rapidly losing interest as he ran silver eyes along the greasy walls, lined with machine parts and repair tools.

Riza made sure to keep one eye on him even as she made her way to the counter at the back of the darkened room. She didn't trust him – none of them did – but for now, all they could do was play along. This man, while dangerous, didn't come across Riza as particularly deadly. Really, she suspected that the only reason he had offered his 'help' was merely because the notion of a kidnapped Flame Alchemist struck the brigadier general as a largely entertaining and hugely interesting one.

A born manipulator and puppeteer, he enjoyed watching others squirm and rush about like ants in a storm. So the sooner he grew bored of them, the better.

Riza had sent Breda back an hour ago to check on the Elrics, and he'd obeyed her instructions with measured reluctance; Rourke had sent Major Gabel to get him something to eat – Riza had never managed to get in more than a few words to the young State Alchemist, but he seemed like a mellow enough fellow who'd simply been dragged into this without his discretion.

The two remaining military officers were still a sight to be reckoned with as Riza rang the little silver bell on the counter.

Its clear, tinkling sound resonated strangely through the musty air.

"Just a moment!"

A pattering of light feet, and a young man – an oil-smeared bandanna keeping his fringe out of his eyes, appeared from behind a doorway. "How may I help you…"

He gradually trailed away as his gaze flickered down the unmistakable Amestrian military colours. The smile on his face remained frozen, but his eyes had grown cold with apprehension.

"What brings the military to my humble abode, sir and missus?" the man swept into a mocking bow, the dirty rag in his hand swinging as he straightened.

"We would like to ask you a few questions, if that isn't too much trouble?" asked Riza courteously.

The young mechanic shrugged, swinging his rag over one shoulder and wiping down his greasy hands. "I don't suppose I have a choice?"

Rourke snorted. "You're right – you _don't_."

Riza directed a warning glance behind her, but Rourke smoothly continued on with his bristly dialogue: "We're looking for a black Ford Econoline van sent in for repairs. Perhaps you've seen something of the like?"

The mechanic narrowed his eyes at Rourke's condescending tone. Riza looked at him apologetically, but the damage was done. "No." he said coolly. "Haven't had any vans come in for quite a while now. We specialize in _cars_ , you see."

Riza's heart fell. This was the last repair shop on their list.

The mechanic bent down to drag a heavy toolbox out from underneath the counter, hoisting it onto one shoulder with a grunt of exertion. "Can I help you with anything else?"

"No." said Riza softly – for what else was there to say?

"Glad to be of service, then. I should be getting back to work –" a flash of movement at the entrance catching his eye, the mechanic suddenly raised himself on his tiptoes, straining to look over their heads. "Grandpa, you're back!"

Riza spun around. An old and wizened man was hobbling towards them, his hands as greasy and black as his grandson's, the dim light of evening casting the deep creases of his tanned face in sharp relief. "Ah, Brandon. You wouldn't mind passing me a set of new pistons –"

His blue eyes, clouded with cataracts but still impossibly sharp, swiveled to stare as he finally discerned the presence of Riza and her unsought-for companion. "You people…We aren't in trouble with the state, by any chance?"

Before Riza could move to answer, the young mechanic set down his toolbox and crossed his arms, "No, it's nothing you need to worry about, grandpa. They were just wondering if I'd seen a black Ford Econoline in need of repairs." he regarded both Riza and Rourke with hooded eyes. "I believe that they were just about to leave."

"A black Ford Econoline?" the elderly man snapped his eyes up, scanning Riza's face suspiciously.

"Would you happen to know anything about one?" asked Rourke, tone bored and uninterested.

The old man was still staring at her. His gaze, Riza decided uncomfortably, was like a magnifying glass – scrutinizing every last crack and fissure in her dark and damaged soul.

He then jerked a blackened thumb at Rourke. " _He_ I understand." shifting his feet, his thumb sliced through the air to rest on Hawkeye. "But _you_ – why did you become a soldier, girl?"

Riza's spine snapped upright at the unexpected question. Her amber eyes flickered like a candle in the wind.

"Answer me, child." insisted the man, shuffling closer to her.

Rourke scowled. "Now, hold on a second –"

Riza stepped in front of Rourke. "I joined the military to…" she paused then.

Why _had_ she pledged herself to the Amestrian military? There was a reason, she knew, but it was one which constantly darted in and out of the edges of her consciousness. The echo of an idea – too slippery and insubstantial to grasp in her cupped hands.

The question was a pebble dropped into the pool of tranquil water residing within her heart. Ripples emanated across its mirror-like surface, stirring sunken dust and hidden recollections.

She remembered now – a back clad in Amestrian blue, standing erect and proud. Her first thought had been that royal blue suited his obsidian eyes well.

 _Are you going to judge me for becoming a soldier as well?_

No, she wasn't. She thought it admirable really. The bravery required to chase his dreams, no matter how silly or unrealistic they may be.

 _A future where everyone will be able to live in happiness._

Could they really make that happen? Could _she_?

 _Can I trust you?_

Eyes which sparkled like a midsummer night's dream, their black depths full of silent promise: _Of course you can._

Riza straightened and answered firmly: "I became a soldier because I want to protect this country." _And his –_ their – _dream._

She smiled wryly. "Sorry if I'm boring you. It's just a childish dream of mine."

The old man held her amber gaze for a moment longer. Riza stood her ground and stared right back, even as she felt like she was spreading bare every last atrocity she'd ever committed for the world to scrutinize.

The man snorted once and turned away. "They all say that. Right before they march off to war and never come back."

He limped awkwardly to the counter, cursing softly beneath his breath as he favoured his age-eroded joints.

Riza bit her lip. "Excuse me? Have you seen the vehicle we're searching for?"

His movements faltered – just for an instant.

Riza breathed in. _He_ knows _something._

She strode urgently up to him, overtaking the elderly man in mere seconds. "Could you...could you tell me what you know?"

The man looked towards the wall, resolutely avoiding her gaze. "I have nothing to say to you."

Rourke clicked his tongue in mocking disappointment. "My, this is looking more and more like an obstruction of justice. Lieutenant Hawkeye, if you'd allow me –"

Riza whirled around, sherry eyes glinting like hardened jewels. "I can handle this, General Rourke."

To his credit, Rourke simply shrugged and stepped aside.

Riza swallowed and turned back to the old mechanic. "I…Please." Riza could not recall the last time she'd felt desperate enough to plead for another's help. "This concerns someone…very important to me."

The man must have heard, or sensed, the slip of emotion in her voice. He sighed deeply. "There is a long stretch of abandoned land between Sersa and what used to be the place we called Ishval. I have a small repair shop there, have managed it for almost forty years. In the old days, business with travelling Ishvalans was good. But when the war broke out –" he chuckled mirthlessly to himself. "Business with the military was good. But now…that place is deserted. No one goes there anymore, but no matter how much my grandson insists that I close it down and move to the main shop, I just can't let it go."

He looked at Riza, eyes steady and unwavering with the stillness of long years. "Customers are rare and far in between, out in the desert. But last night, I had a very unusual guest."

Riza nodded, urging him to continue.

"He was an Ishvalan man." the old mechanic shrugged. "He brought me to where his van had broken down on the sand some meters away. Dead battery – it was child's play to jumpstart the engine. It was painted black, with tinted windows…and I'm fairly certain it was the model you are looking for."

Riza felt her heart surge with irrepressible hope. "Where did they go?" she stepped forwards, urgency radiating in every sinewy ripple of movement.

The elderly man seemed to think. Then, with almost agonizing slowness, he pointed a gnarled finger east.

Riza instinctively glanced up in that direction, only for her eyes to hit the adjacent wall and the various assortment of automobile spare parts it boasted.

"I'm sorry?" her voice faltered, uncomprehending.

The mechanic shook his head in a sagely manner. "You're not looking far enough, child. The people you're searching for were headed east, away from the town. To a place no one's ever ventured to in many years."

Riza's eyes slowly widened, a myriad of emotions – surprise, realization, horror – clouding their sherry depths.

"But that's –"

…

* * *

Just because Xandria didn't believe in surnames didn't mean that Xandria didn't believe in family.

Xandria and her twin brother Xander had long since forsaken the last name bestowed to them by their ancestors when they had lost their family in the war. It was simply a painful reminder of what had been destroyed, and what had set them on this thorn-strewn path of retribution.

But family was important. _Always._

Which was why Xandria found herself wrenching open door after door, the slim Ishvalan girl wincing as she clutched at the bandaged bullet-hole in her upper arm. "Asther?"

She found the smaller girl in their bedroom – a slight bump underneath the covers of her cot. The shutters were closed, blocking out even the meager sunlight of the darkening day.

Xandria closed the door behind her softly, plunging the room into even deeper darkness. "Asther?"

The rolled up mound didn't budge. Xandria sighed and crawled over the mattress spread on the floor, touching a hand to Asther's almost painfully bone-thin shoulder. The mattress was Xandria's – even though this old place had more than enough rooms to house all of them, Asther didn't like sleeping alone.

Asther didn't respond. Xandria ran gentle fingers through her long, silken white hair.

Asther jolted as if touched by electricity. Xandria started back when the younger girl turned around, her blanket pulled firmly up to her chin.

Asther's white half-mask gleamed eerily in the shadows of their room. That mask had concealed the entire right side of her face for years, even before Xandria had come to know and love her, and the older girl honestly could no longer imagine Asther without it.

Asther's single exposed cheek shone with tears – she'd been crying.

Xandria reached out, cupping her hands around her little cousin's chin and pulling Asther into her lap. She obeyed without resistance, pressing her face into Xandria's side as she sniffled uncontrollably.

"He made you cry." stated Xandria tightly. She herself wasn't sure if she meant Evan or the Flame Alchemist when she'd said 'he'. As far as Xandria was concerned, she hated both of them – Evan in the way which she disliked an unbearably annoying younger cousin, Colonel Roy Mustang in the way which she loathed all State Alchemists.

Though personally, Xandria's quarrel wasn't specifically with the Flame Alchemist. No, _her_ family had been wiped out by someone else. Hence, the degree of her odium wasn't as intense as Evan, or even Uncle Blake.

Frankly, she had no reason to interfere with Evan's twisted quest for justice. But why did he have to make Asther _cry_?

Asther sniffed miserably and shook her head.

Xandria exhaled noisily, combing calloused fingers through Asther's snow-coloured hair. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord, separating and dividing strands as she swiftly braided Asther's long tresses.

"I told you not to talk to him. Roy Mustang." said Xandria sternly, but not quite unkindly.

"I'm sorry." mumbled Asther indistinctly. "I've been watching him – and them – for weeks, even before they arrived in Sersa. I've just always observed from a distance, so I was…curious, I guess."

"Curiosity killed the cat." remarked Xandria bluntly.

"You don't have to tease me about it, Big-Sister-Xandria." bemoaned Asther.

Xandria mentally kicked herself. Pep-talks were definitely _not_ her strong suit. "What are you upset about, Asther?"

"I just…I don't _understand_." Asther burrowed deeper into Xandria's comfortable arms. "I don't understand why we have to _do_ this."

"It's for the good of Ishval." breathed Xandria, braiding and unbraiding Asther's hair. The process was meditative – winding, unwinding, tangling, untangling. "And because he hurt you."

At the thought, Xandria dropped one hand to Asther's face, rubbing the smooth surface of her mask with thumb and forefinger. She paused, before slipping them underneath the mask, moving as if to take it off.

Asther grabbed Xandria's wrist. Her one visible ruby iris glittered with unshed moisture. "No." she whispered.

Xandria dropped her hand.

"I don't want to hurt people anymore." Asther murmured into Xandria's blouse.

It was safe to say that this particular stunt was far from their first. The four of them had been living with Uncle Blake for years, after all – and more than a few mysterious disappearances of military officials in East City and Central could be credited to them. It was nothing personal. They just needed to silence anyone who could turn in Xander and Xandria – both full-bloods, unlike their next of kin – to the big dogs.

Xandria fell into contemplative quiet. " _Lex talionis._ " she intoned faintly, her voice echoing strangely in this enclosed space.

"My brother says that to me all the time." commented Asther vaguely.

"It's a law – one interestingly similar to the alchemical principle of Equivalent Exchange." explained Xandria patiently. "The law of retribution. _Lex talionis._ The punishment corresponds in kind and degree to the injury or crime. The old 'an eye for an eye'. "

"But," she smiled, a dark little thing. "What happens when the misdeed is too large to be paid back by a single person? And does that mean vengeance is justified?"

"I don't…understand." said Asther uncertainly.

Xandria stroked Asther's hair soothingly. "It's okay, my little Asther. You don't have to. You don't have to understand, you don't have to watch, you don't have to _know_. We'll handle everything."

She leaned down, pressing her forehead to the crown of Asther's head.

"After all, that's what we're here for."

* * *

The night was a living, writhing thing, its arrival heralded by a stiffening silence and the deep sighs of slumber. The lonely moaning of the wind and the mournful song of nocturnal insects.

The silence, too, was alive – wrapping invisible fingers around your throat, strangling and choking. Stifling and oppressing.

There was something mesmerizing about them all the same. A strange magic in the air after the sun had spluttered out and the night was old and ancient. Roy could feel it now, a vibration in his bones and a shiver up his spine, as he curled up next to his wall and tried to doze off.

But the goddess of sleep wasn't kind to him tonight, and he found himself wide awake and listening to the sounds of nightfall.

The wind was strong, random and violent gusts spluttering through the open window and chilling his skin through his dampened clothes. With it arrived the now-familiar smell of desert plains – if nothing else, at least Roy was certain that he was either still in, or nearby, Sersa.

The wind blew again, and this time, it carried with it tiny particles which whipped against his closed eyelids. He opened them tiredly. The floor was now littered with fine mysterious grains of unknown origin – like minute slippery beads beneath his shoes.

 _Sand…?_

The silence here was not one of an absence of sound, but rather the absence of human activity. Outside, the distinctive snarl of a male fennec fox drifted through the night, aggressively marking its territory. The hiss and tremor of a passing rattlesnake sounded once, and faded away as it slithered underneath a rock or dune.

Roy's eyes flickered, tired but not sleepy. The strange sounds of night rang a chord somewhere deep within him, rousing to the surface buried memories of sand in his shoes and ash in his hair.

He jerked upright.

 _It can't be._

But the sounds, the smell and the _feel_ of this place, it could only be –

His voice was barely a whisper as his lips parted, uttering the accursed name:

" _Ishval._ "

* * *

 _ **1908, The Ishvalan War of Extermination**_

 _ **District 27**_

 _Sometimes, they made him do it in the darkest hours just before dawn._

 _Fire was always the most magnificent in the starless black, an endless performance of spitting sparks and crackling tongues. There was a certain sinful pleasure in playing with fire in the dark, but right now, all he felt was the guilt of sin and none of the satisfaction._

 _When the sun broke the horizon and the sky began to burn, the new day would reveal a catastrophe spread as far as the eye could see. The young major gazed out at this scene of destruction, horror lodged in his throat and a terrible awe in his eyes. For alchemy was an art, and even the most gory masterpieces held the most awful allure._

 _The men of the platoon he was stationed in were already trickling slowly into the decimated town nestled in the low valley of desert rock. This was often what happened with the smaller districts – the frontal assault would be left to their assigned State Alchemist, and any remaining survivors would be picked off one by one come the bloody glow of dawn._ If _there were survivors._

 _"Major?" he started terribly at a voice by his shoulder, filthy white cloak rustling as he whirled around, prepared to snap. He checked himself half-turn, forcing his jittery nerves to calm down at the sight of the brown-eyed corporal._

 _"Major –" the soldier paused uncertainly, a fresh face new from the academy. The major was good with names, but currently, his mind simply could not find the energy to drudge up the corporal's from the murky depths of memory. "If you aren't…feeling well, I could let Major Patton know that you won't be joining them today."_

 _The major swallowed thickly and waved a hand. "No, it's fine. Where's Hugh – I mean, Captain Hughes?"_

 _"The captain has already departed with the rest of his men. He told me to let you know that you can stay here if you want to."_

 _The major smiled dryly, an expression which felt so foreign to his exhausted features. "I should thank him for his concern, then. I'm going in." he began making his way down alone. "Corporal, you're dismissed."_

 _The corporal saluted and departed to regroup with the rest of his unit, eyes haunted with images of war. The major momentarily wondered if his own eyes looked like that as well, but shook the thought from his head as he descended the valley._

 _His men –_ his _unit – were waiting for him at the bottom. The major casted a weary glance at their sand-encrusted and stoic faces, some of them older and more telling of experience than his, and yet silently awaiting his orders._

 _He decided then, that at the very least, he'd make sure these men left this place alive. In a world of shattered dreams, that was all he_ could _do._

 _Baby steps._

 _"You've all been briefed." the major said crisply, folding his arms behind his back. "You know your orders. Split up to cover as much ground as possible before noon."_

 _He tried not to choke on the word 'orders'._

 _The men saluted solemnly. "Yes sir."_

 _As they departed, two of the younger soldiers came up to him. "Pardon us, sir. But we may have a problem."_

 _He nodded, gesturing for them to show him._

 _A short distance away, the soldiers led him to a small, relatively intact Ishvalan house. Only the upper story had been burned away by his flames, and there were parts where the ceiling had fallen in completely._

 _The first soldier stepped forward to push at the half-broken door. It groaned once, but didn't budge. "Sir, we think the door is obstructed by rubble. And there could be someone hiding in there, so we were hoping maybe you could…"_

 _He trailed off, but the major got the message._

 _Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a slightly crushed piece of chalk and waved the soldiers away. "I'll handle this. You two regroup with the rest."_

 _They reluctantly saluted and marched away. In the distance, a crackle of gunfire and a brief human scream sounded, setting the major's teeth on edge._

 _Fingers moving quickly, he sketched a simple transmutation circle on the surface of the door and pressed a gloved hand to it._

 _The chalked circle crackled and fizzed to life. He stepped away as the door disintegrated, spilling pieces of collapsed ceiling and wall onto the threshold._

 _Swiping away the dust, the major slowly made his way over the rubble and into the house. The air was strangely cool and dank in the main foyer, his footsteps loud on the smooth tiles._

 _Raising one hand in wary expectation, he ascended a winding banister at the far end of the hall._

 _The second floor was a complete mess. The major swept guarded eyes over his surroundings, noting the familiar scorch marks decorating parts of the un-collapsed ceiling. Fire had eaten away at the wooden support beams, causing most of the roof to come crashing down._

 _Treading carefully over the partially destroyed walkway, he checked each room before concluding in relief that there was not a soul to be seen. As he strode back towards the staircase, his gaze snagged on the bedroom at the far end of the corridor – the door was swinging open, paint licked black and charred. The ceiling had completely collapsed onto its interior, making the room not worth risking his neck for._

 _But something drew him to it anyway. He stepped closer, broken floorboards creaking dangerously beneath his feet. But what of death? He was no longer afraid of it – or rather, he was more afraid of causing the death of another than of his own._

 _The door swung against the wall and rebounded loudly. He realized that the dark smear on the floor was in fact, blood._

 _Beneath the rubble of the incinerated ceiling, a lifeless hand stretched out, brown skin dusted white by fallen plaster. Like a silent plea for help._

 _The major breathed in once, turned around, and went back down the stairs._

 _He checked the first floor quickly, and was just about to leave when a muffled wail stopped him in his tracks._

 _He paused, ears perked and listening. The regular beat of gunfire thrummed through the walls._

 _Then there it was again – the wail of a toddler, coming from somewhere beneath his feet._

 _The major glanced around in bewilderment. He was in what seemed to be a living room, and a thick carpet covered part of the floor. He kicked it off, only to reveal a wooden trapdoor set in the stone._

 _Carefully, he approached it and wrenched the hidden door open. He expected some resistance, but it gave without even the creak of hinges, and he nearly sprawled backwards with the force of his own strength._

 _He peered in, thumb and forefinger tightly pressed together. A short flight of steps led into what seemed to be a shallow underground cellar._

 _The shadows shifted, and the light filtering in from aboveground revealed a hunched over, trembling shape._

 _It looked up, red eyes wide in a painfully young face. A boy, barely eleven or twelve, cradling a bundle of rags in his arms._

 _The bundle emitted the piercing cry which the major had heard earlier. The boy drew it closer to his body, as if he could protect the baby with nothing but his own flesh and bone._

 _The alchemist hesitantly descended the first step. The boy shrieked once and shuffled away. "Don't hurt us! Please…don't hurt my sister…"_

 _He dissolved into racking sobs and shivers. A tragic, desperate sound which made the young major's heart constrict._

 _He raised his hand, like a divine entity delivering unjust judgment._

But they were just children.

Screw his orders. Screw it all.

 _His fingers slipped, sparking but not igniting. He moved quickly, shutting the trapdoor and replacing the carpet as neatly as he could. He wouldn't be able to dampen the sounds, nor get them help, but he'd left them alive and that had to count for something._

 _He emerged into the blistering sunshine and almost immediately ran into the soldier who had directed him to the house._

 _The soldier saluted promptly. "Sir, did you find anyone?"_

 _The major clenched his jaw._

 _It had to count for something._

 _"Dead." he told him._

"They're all dead."


	12. Chapter 11 - Impact

**Author's Note:**

 **Before I go any further, I have an announcement to make (ah don't worry, this probably isn't as bad as it sounds?).**

 **This has been a difficult decision for me, but in light of my end-of-year exams coming up in two weeks, I'll have to take a month's leave off this writing project (this is also part of the reason why I've been rather on off these couple of weeks).**

 **Firstly, I'm sincerely sorry for this sudden bomb-drop! Secondly, this doesn't mean I'm giving up on this story. In fact, I'm about 70 percent through with the plot (I estimate there to be around 17-18 chapters in total including the epilogue), so no matter how difficult the later chapters are I promise I'll fight my way through them.**

 **My next update will be on the 2nd of December, so please don't forget me before then~**

 **I would also like to take this brief reprieve to rethink the plot and my writing techniques, so I would really appreciate it if you could tell me your overall thoughts so far (eg. storyline/characters/pace/structure etc.) either through PM or a review. I would like to come back fully motivated and ready to make things interesting!**

 **As always, thanks for reading (and a special thank you to all those who have stuck with me since the very beginning!) and please fav/review if you liked it!**

 **Reply to emmahoshi : Hi there~ I'll be replying to both of your reviews (because I can't be bothered to go back to my previous chapter :P), so bear with me! (Chapter 9) I'm glad you liked that line and you really got what I was trying to say! Yup, I was going more for the feeling that Edward only puts up with Roy calling him 'Fullmetal' (because I don't recall anyone else ever calling him that), so in a way it's symbolic of their relationship and he can't stand anyone else using it. (Chapter 10) Hehe, that's what makes this fandom so interesting - Amestris _is_ full of weird people! Yup, it's sad, but I hope that's what makes this all the more real.**

 **Reply to Guest: That...is an excellent question. Mm, I think Ed and Al have (and will) played a pretty significant role so far in terms of plot (since a lot of stuff wouldn't happen if not for them). Uhm... In terms of screen-time, I think Ed and Al combine hog at least 40-50 percent of my writing (lol), while Roy hogs roughly the other 50 percent. My aim in writing this fic was to make it unique in the way that the MCs get equal attention, so I'm not sure if I'm doing this right so far? Thanks for the review! :)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own this, but hats off to the amazing person, Hiromu Arakawa, who does!**

* * *

 _Chapter 11 – Impact_

The night was filled with long overdue excitement.

Edward wasn't sure if 'excitement' was the right word. More accurately – a hasty flurry of movement, multiple voices raised in quick discussion, important decisions made, a plan of action laid out, and adrenaline pumping quick and breathlessly through his veins.

Excitement – yes, that did describe this scene rather aptly.

Hawkeye had insisted on coming alone, but Edward had adamantly insisted otherwise in his trademark stubborn-as-a-mule manner. And Al, being Al, had insisted on being wherever his brother happened to be. He had a feeling that the only reason he wasn't already a bloody smear on the wall was because Hawkeye's mind was currently preoccupied with other matters.

And regarding said 'other matters', Ed stretched up to peer over the lieutenant's shoulder while she pressed a finger to the tarnished doorbell. As opposed to a year ago, he didn't have to raise himself on his tiptoes, so he took that as a good sign of his long awaited growth spurt (Edward didn't care that Mustang scoffed and said it was imaginary).

A long buzzing sound echoed faintly behind the closed door.

Edward listened to it being bounced back and forth, eventually fading away into the dense chill of night, before a pattering of feet was heard and the faded green door was suspiciously pulled open a crack.

Then the door was completely thrown open, revealing a slightly unkempt Major Miles rather sparsely dressed in striped pajamas.

His red eyes flickered up and down in obvious bewilderment, for once unobscured by his customary tinted goggles.

"Major Miles." greeted Hawkeye.

Miles took one look at the three solemn faces staring at him from his front door, glanced back to check the clock on the mantelpiece, and instantly deduced that this probably went a bit further than the usual military business. "Lieutenant Hawkeye. Edward, Alphonse."

Miles stepped back to allow Hawkeye and the Elric brothers entry into his small rented apartment before shutting the door behind them.

Edward's gaze darted curiously around the two room residence – it reminded him of every last dingy motel he used to crash in during his State Alchemist days, except several times more faded and sparsely furnished.

He froze at the curious sight of Scar sitting at the dining table, a newspaper propped up in front of him as he sipped stoically from a juice box.

Scar glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and Ed felt their gazes lock.

The Ishvalan's eyes were impossibly steady, and tonight they shimmered like garnets rather than blood. For a single second, Edward had the most bizarre feeling that Scar _understood._

The young teenager scowled. Scar calmly went back to his perusal of the sports page, completely ignoring the additional presences in the room.

"Coffee or tea?" offered Miles courteously to his unexpected guests.

"Thank you, but we'll only be a moment." said Hawkeye. "I'm here to ask a small favour of you."

Ed perked up from where he was examining the adjacent bookshelf. Alphonse glanced over anxiously.

 _How much did Hawkeye trust him?_

Hawkeye nodded briskly. "It's concerning the colonel." she paused, eyes flicking imperceptibly towards the mountainous form of Scar at the dining table, apparently still immersed in his reading. "Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere a little more private?"

"Ah." Miles's own red eyes flashed in realization. "Surely there's no need for that –"

Scar, apparently taking this as his cue, folded his newspaper neatly and stood up, chair screeching against the scratched wooden floorboards. "I'll be outside." he announced impassively, already moving towards the door in smooth, rippling strides.

Miles waved him down. Scar stopped. "No, stay." the white-haired major turned to face Hawkeye. "Scar's one of us now. You can trust him."

Hawkeye pursed her lips, turmoil flickering like fire across her features. Edward briefly wondered what exactly constituted as 'one of us', but Scar had helped them in the battle against the Homunculi, plus he hadn't killed any State Alchemists in more than half a year now. That, at least, was a good start.

However, Hawkeye's hesitation was short-lived, indicating that she trusted the Ishvalan more than she cared to admit. Hawkeye nodded once at Scar as a show of consent, then gestured for Miles to take a seat. "I'll be as brief as possible."

Everyone was silent as Hawkeye gave their two new – potential? – allies the 100 word version of what had occurred since the previous night.

"So at least now we know that there's a high possibility he's in Ishval." finished Hawkeye. "I apologize if this has been uncomfortable for you…" the lieutenant paused, searching for the right word.

"It's fine to be blunt about it, lieutenant." Miles's mouth twisted in an unamused half-smile, part bitterness, part resignation. "Yes, I am disappointed that my proud kinsmen would resort to such methods…but really," he sighed and crossed his arms. "I should have expected this."

"We did." said Hawkeye softly. "We were simply…too unprepared."

Miles straightened resolutely, the soldier within clicking into place. "But no matter who's involved, what's wrong is still wrong. Colonel Mustang has pushed the Ishvalan Restoration Program from the very beginning, and now it's only right that I repay the favour." he uncrossed his arms, his determined features set in indecipherable stone. "What can I do?"

Hawkeye took a breath, and Edward pretended not to hear the gratefulness in her voice. "I've fought in Ishval, so I know what it's like – many miles of sand and desert and rock which we have to cross in the quickest way possible. Resources we can handle ourselves, but what we really require is transport. Special desert vehicles designed for rocky terrain. You've been here longer than us, Major Miles, and right now you're the only person I can think of who can attain what we need."

Miles was nodding now, fiddling his thumbs as he mulled over this task. "I may know some people who can help us with that. Actually, I can do better than simply getting you transportation."

Motioning for Hawkeye to wait, Miles got up and lifted the receiver from his phone, rapidly dialling an obviously familiar number.

He smiled at Hawkeye's inquiring look, the receiver pressed to his ear. "I happen to know of several Briggs soldiers who are currently in East City for a training exercise. They used to be my men, so we can trust them, but I have to run this through my rather sharp-tongued superior."

A few rings later, the line clicked and a cold female voice buzzed vaguely from the other end.

Ed felt a shiver run up his spine. A very _familiar_ female voice.

Miles automatically snapped into a salute, which would be comical in any other situation considering that he was still in his PJs. "Yes General. Yes, this is important." he quickly gave her an even briefer run through of current events. "Thank you, we appreciate that. Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

He lifted his head, covering the receiver with a hand as he told Hawkeye: "She wants to speak to you."

Hawkeye smoothly accepted the phone from Miles. "General Armstrong."

" _Lieutenant Hawkeye._ " came the cool, commanding voice, loud enough for most of them to make out her words. " _Miles told me that Mustang has found himself in a bit of a…tight spot. Unsurprising, really – if I know anything about that good-for-nothing slacker with less than half a brain to his name. Now lieutenant, why not just leave him to the wolves and take over his position? I'm sure you'll do a much better job of it than he ever has._ "

For the first time in what felt like a long while, Hawkeye actually smiled. "I appreciate the proposal, general. And as tempting as it is, we _do_ still need him. So if you wouldn't mind?"

Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong laughed regally, the sound rather like the chilly gusting of a snowstorm as befitting the infamous Ice Queen. " _He should be thanking his lucky stars to have a soldier such as you by his side."_

Hawkeye cocked her head. "He's always been my responsibility, general."

The Ice Queen _hmph_ ed elegantly. " _You have my word that my soldiers will be at your location by tomorrow morning to assist you in any way they can. Major Miles will be in charge of them in this particular operation. Tell Mustang that I'll be expecting his call to personally thank me, and that I'll be making_ sure _he repays this particular debt._ " Armstrong paused in consideration. " _If the Fullmetal brat is there, send him my regards as well. There are still plenty of icicles at Briggs with his name on them."_

Before Edward could retort anything to _that_ , the line promptly went dead.

Hawkeye replaced the receiver, seeming to be in slightly better spirits.

"Now what?" asked Alphonse from his seat next to Scar.

"Now, we head back and wait for reinforcements." answered Hawkeye, but she had barely left the phone before it emitted a shrill wail.

Eyeing the phone cautiously, Hawkeye picked it up a second time. "Hello?"

This particular voice was also female, belonging to a person just as charismatic and powerful, but in subtler ways as compared to military prowess. " _Riza, dear. I'm glad I finally managed to contact you._ "

To her credit, Hawkeye's expression was just slightly startled. "Madame? How did you get this number?"

" _That you don't need to know. I have some information that may interest you._ " not waiting for a response, Madame Christmas promptly ploughed on. " _I sent one of my girls to East City to check out your man. Information about him was surprisingly easy to find – Leonardo Blake is indeed a practising doctor working at East City's main hospital. Records show that his father was Amestrian while his mother was half-Ishvalan, which explains how he avoided the earlier purges. Years before the war, he married a full-blooded Ishvalan and had two children with her. Official records cease there – all we know is that Blake remained in East City for the duration of the war, unable to cross the border, while the rest of his family were stranded in Ishval. It is unclear whether or not they are dead._ "

Hawkeye considered this information. "That could be helpful."

" _There's more._ " Christmas cleared her throat. " _This took some digging, but during the war, his wife and children were living in a town called Guran – otherwise known as District Number 27, one of the many which were ordered to be destroyed by a State Alchemist. Who exactly was assigned to this district is classified military information._ " she paused meaningfully, a sure sign for Hawkeye to take a guess.

Riza had only eventually run into Roy around the very end of the war, so she couldn't be sure of his movements before then.

She took a guess.

" _One final thing. This may be a coincidence, but the date of the Guran extermination…it coincides with tomorrow's date._ "

It took Hawkeye a moment to remember how to breathe again. "I…see."

" _That's all I have for now. I'll let you know immediately if we come up with anything else._ "

"Thank you, Madame." intoned Hawkeye softly.

" _Anything for you, Riza._ " for the second time that night, the phone disconnected.

Hawkeye squared her shoulders and glanced at Edward. "Did you get all that?"

"District Twenty-Seven." Ed nodded. "You think this could be another lead?"

"For now, it's all we have." Hawkeye spun on her heel urgently to face Miles. "Major, do you happen to know of any maps of Ishval that we can get our hands on?"

Miles ran fingers through his snow white hair. "I'm not sure. After the war, Ishval was pretty much wiped off the Amestrian map. Old copies were burned, history books were erased, and the slate was wiped clean. As if to pretend that _we_ didn't exist – never existed. Some of the original maps should still be at Central, but we aren't getting those anytime soon."

Alphonse chewed thoughtfully on his lip. "But Ishval is a big place! It's literally a country in itself. How will we –"

"I know."

The silent voice surprised them all into stillness.

Edward swivelled to regard the Ishvalan ex-killer, unsure if he should be impressed or suspicious.

Scar was an unmoving statue of white robes and bright eyes, expression wholly unreadable.

He looked up, locking eyes with Hawkeye.

"I know where it is. I can take you there."

* * *

Good was a vulnerable thing, a crystalline snowflake, rare and fragile; evil, however, was like a weed, it crept silently under the cover of darkness, a tangible thing which didn't need much to fuel its advance.

Xandria, personally, never found it beneficial to differentiate between the two. They were, after all, nothing but abstract concepts created by man. Make-believe, if you will. For who had the right to say which side was the wicked witch and which was the hero in shining armour?

Family. Family and the people you needed to protect – that was all that mattered now.

The closed shutters shone with the warm glow of daybreak as Xandria strode down the grimy corridor. Pausing at one of them, she tittered to herself as she cracked open a shutter and rubbed a thumb against the glass. It came back thick with filth, and Xandria peered down at the large front yard the window overlooked.

The yard, once home to flourishing potted plants and bonsais, was now a desolate wasteland of sand bordered by a low rusted fence.

Xandria closed the shutter and kept walking. Just around the corner, she ran into a tall Ishvalan boy. Much to her annoyance, he towered over her by a near full four inches, his hair neatly cropped and swept back from his face. But whatever innocence his young face implied was promptly shattered by the gleaming rifle slung over his shoulder.

Xandria grinned. "Hey, twinnie."

The boy looked up, not the least bit amused. "Don't call me that."

Xandria peered over his shoulder at the closed door he was guarding. "Uncle Blake still trusts you with guard duty after you let Asther in yesterday?"

Her younger brother (even though he often begged to differ, Xandria swore she was born a minute earlier), Xander's face instantly soured. "Uncle hasn't found out yet. Besides, you know I can't resist Asther's puppy dog eyes."

Xandria shrugged sagely, conceding his point.

Xander snorted. "Though, wouldn't you say that our two darling cousins have an almost unhealthy obsession with you-know-who recently?" he gestured towards the door to indicate his meaning.

Xandria gazed at him levelly. "How would _you_ feel if it were the Iron-Blood Alchemist behind that door?"

There was a short beat of silence as Xander considered this with full severity.

"The Flame Alchemist seems a lot more civilized. And a lot less intimidating."

"Aww, shut up." Xandria tossed her head and rolled her eyes. "Where's Evan?"

Xander leaned back against the wall. "Gone. It's that day again."

"Ah. _That_ day. Isn't Uncle Blake going with him?"

"Uncle went yesterday. You know how emotional he can get."

Xandria paused. Xander dropped his eyes. "You know, sis. We haven't…We haven't gone to visit our home in a while either."

Xandria's crimson eyes hardened. "The past isn't worth dwelling on, twinnie." she turned her head, absentmindedly rubbing a spot of dirt off the wall. "Besides, there isn't anything left to go back to. At least the house where their mother died is still _standing_."

Xander laughed hoarsely. "You're right. I don't think I'll be able to recognize our old house anyway. By now, it's probably nothing but pile of bricks by the roadside."

Xandria sighed and straightened, patting Xander's shoulder encouragingly. "Go. Follow Evan if you're worried."

Xander jerked up in surprise. "How did you –"

"Call it twin intuition." Xandria smirked. _That and you have your thoughts written literally all over your face._ "I'll watch our special guest for you."

Xander regarded her uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

Xandria shrugged and patted the dirk strapped to her thigh. "Worry not, brother. Besides, it's only fair that you keep Evan out of trouble. I've already got Asther covered."

Xander glanced at Xandria in exasperation, but he was already moving down the corridor, readjusting the rifle on his shoulder as he went. "Why do I feel like I got the shorter end of the stick?"

Xandria chuckled appreciatively, even though she knew that Xander didn't really mean it. While she had never gotten along with Evan, their younger cousin was still the closest thing Xander had to a blood brother.

Once Xander's footsteps had faded away, Xandria loitered outside the door for a few more minutes before boredom claimed victory and she moved to open it.

The space it led to was, in most part, unexciting. As dusty and neglected as the rest of this abandoned place, the only furnishing it sported was a low wooden table and two chairs set up beneath the open window, ripped curtains billowing eerily in response to an invisible breeze.

And then, your attention would inevitably be drawn to the most bizarre part of the room – its sole occupant, a surprisingly slender figure in Amestrian blue sitting slumped against the far wall.

Xandria shut the door as loudly as humanely possible. The figure didn't budge, so Xandria shrugged and assumed he was asleep.

Striding over to the table, she ran a finger down the glossy cover of the hardback version of _Far from the Madding Crowd_ , presumably having being left there by the room's previous visitor – most likely Xander. Wondering why her brother was reading a sappy romance novel in his spare time, Xandria flipped it around to skim through the summary, took a seat, and started flipping lazily through the pages.

The atmosphere felt almost cozy, really. The sunlight streaming in through the window warmed Xandria to the core most splendidly, the familiar rustle of paper and the homely smell of the written word causing her to relax almost inadvertently.

Then, for the very first time, she heard him speak.

"You must be Xandria."

Xandria paused mid-page-turn, raising her eyes inquisitively. A pair of visionless grey eyes stared steadily back, gaze directed at some indistinct point above Xandria's head. Despite that, there was still a certain sharpness about his demeanour and the way he now sat, straight-backed and seemingly confident. A clever edge to the slight cock of his head and his almost boyish spread of dark hair.

"Excuse me?" replied Xandria curtly, snapping the book shut with a satisfying _thud_.

"So you _are_ Xandria." the Flame Alchemist confirmed his own statement, smiling rather smugly at his own expert guess. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Still doesn't explain how you knew who I was."

"I didn't recognize your footsteps," answered Colonel Roy Mustang patiently. "Which meant that you were either a complete stranger, or someone come here to rescue me, or simply the yet-unintroduced fifth member of the family." his smile widened. "I chose option three."

Xandria snorted. "Clever."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You don't seem very rattled, considering what happened yesterday." remarked Xandria, casually leafing through the pages of her novel, keeping up the pretence of nonchalance even as her eyes remained firmly fixed on him.

This should be interesting.

Roy Mustang simply shrugged, offering no further comment.

Xandria waited, watching intently like a bird of prey unsure of its newest catch.

"You must think I'm a pretty bad person." stated the alchemist. Not a question, nor a query. Simply a statement, straightforward and plain – a truth he himself was well aware of.

Xandria raised her eyebrows, but his countenance remained solemn. It wasn't an expression that suited him, the least used but perhaps most genuine of his many masks. Asther was right – if Xandria had met this man on the street, she would have pegged him as the generic city dweller, somewhere between charming suitor and reckless party-goer. He certainly didn't _look_ like the soon-to-be youngest general in Amestrian history, nor a mass murderer of innocents.

Xandria splayed her fingers out on the pages of her novel, marvelling at how true the saying 'never judge a book by its cover' was, and how that fact merely deepened her dislike for him.

"Of course I do. I think you are a _very_ bad person." responded Xandria, equally blunt. A small, sarcastic smile tugged at the edges of her full lips. "Then again, who am I to talk? Considering the things I've done to survive until this point, I'm pretty bad as well."

Mustang cocked an eyebrow. "Things?"

Xandria waved a hand dismissively, crossing her legs. "Doesn't matter. In fact, it no longer matters who's in the wrong and who's in the right, does it?" she turned her head, gazing absentmindedly out the window at the barren ground below. "Only who survives and who doesn't. After all, we're all the heroes of our own stories. It's simply a matter of perspective."

She stroked the cover of the book in her lap as Mustang considered this. "But don't think – _never_ think that you can gain forgiveness for all you've done. No matter what you do, or try to do, some acts are simply too far-gone." continued Xandria, tone turning vehement. "Nothing will change. Asther's mother will still be dead, and the same goes for all the other lives you and your military have taken."

Mustang seemed to wilt just a little before straightening his shoulders resolutely. "But I _can_ change things."

Xandria scoffed. "We Ishvalans know what's best for Ishval. If you really want to help, give your Fuhrer a call and tell him to hurry the independence thing along."

"Firstly, I can hardly do that." the alchemist shook his hands, making his chains clank loudly to demonstrate his point. "Secondly, I don't expect that any of you are planning to let me leave here alive, considering how much I already know."

Xandria smiled humourlessly. "And I was wondering what gave that away."

Mustang cocked his head. "So the promise of an exchange was a lie?"

"Personally, I would much rather leave you to suffocate slowly under the weight of your own guilt." said Xandria, rising from her seat. "It seems like a much crueller punishment. But I'm not the one with a personal score to settle, so that's not up to me."

"Is that so?" the colonel remarked coolly.

Xandria flicked a lock of pale hair over her shoulder. "You don't seem very surprised. Or even afraid."

His only response was a light smile. "I guess I'm no stranger to these situations."

Xandria clicked her tongue, mildly impressed. "You must live a very tiring life then, Flame Alchemist. If I were you, I would be glad to be relieved of it."

She swept into a sarcastic curtsy, even if the dramatic motion would go largely unnoticed. "If you may excuse me, this has been an enlightening conversation."

He didn't answer, and she hadn't expected him to.

Once the door had clicked shut, and he could still hear the girl moving around on the other side of it, Roy allowed himself a sigh.

He _really_ needed to get out of here.

* * *

Most sane people would never think of traversing the wholly unsheltered terrain of a barren desert at noon.

But considering how most of their morning had been spent gathering supplies and waiting for people to arrive, Alphonse Elric reasoned in his usual philosophical manner that this was inevitable.

Still, that didn't stop him from complaining (quietly) about the blistering heat of unimpeded sun, which seemed to scorch his fair skin in a way that nearly made him wish he was back in the cool core of his old armour. And that was with the roof of the four-seater over their heads _and_ the air conditioning on at full blast.

His brother was a bit more blatant about his displeasure, swearing profusely at the sand dunes whirling past the window as he gave the desert a good piece of his mind regarding where and what he'd much rather be doing on such a hot day.

Squeezed in next to the brothers at the back of the jeep was a flustered Major Gabel. Al recalled that besides the rather meek major, another two of General Rourke's 'associates' had arrived that morning – apparently the bulky looking men weren't military, but personal guards employed by his own family, and Alphonse was having trouble deciding which alternative was worse. When Hawkeye had confronted him in a dryly sarcastic manner, Rourke simply responded that they hadn't really expected him to go after a group of dangerous criminals without protection.

Here's to hoping that the general lost interest in them, and quickly.

The only bright spot to their already crappy week was the reappearance of five Briggs soldiers whom both Ed and Al were well-acquainted with. Pleasantries and back-slaps were exchanged at the train station, before Major Miles stepped in and sent his men scurrying off with a string of barked orders.

"What's taking so long?" grumbled Edward on Al's right. "Are you sure that Scar knows what he's doing?"

"I'm sure he does, brother." said Al in his most soothing voice. "All we can do now is trust him."

Ed gave Al an incredulous look. "You can't seriously expect me to do that."

Alphonse, having spent much more time with Scar than Edward had before the Promised Day, simply shrugged. "He's actually pretty okay, once you get to know him."

Ed rolled his eyes and twisted to gaze out the window. "You're only saying that because he's never tried to point-blank kill _you_ before."

"He tried to blow off your head in _front_ of me, brother." deadpanned Alphonse, a little taken aback by his brother's offhand comment. "I think that constitutes the same thing."

Ed swivelled, the hard look in his eyes softening. "Al, I didn't mean that."

"I know." the younger Elric murmured, glancing in the opposite direction. He knew his brother just didn't have much of a filter between his thoughts and his mouth, but that didn't make him feel any less offended.

Golden eyes snagged on a pair of bright green ones.

Major Gabel hurriedly averted his gaze, trying to pick up the pieces of his pretence that he hadn't been listening in to their conversation.

Al cocked his head, amused. The young State Alchemist had been acting like a shy field mouse ever since he found out that their last names were Elric.

"You know, we don't bite, unless it's my brother you're afraid of." joked Al to the major seated on his left.

Gabel visibly started, face going scarlet from either the heat or pure embarrassment. "No! I mean, I didn't mean… Ah, I've just…always wanted to say what an honour it is for me as an alchemist to meet the renowned Elric brothers. And, ahem – I'm sorry I didn't recognize the both of you before. You were a little shorter than I expected."

Al raised his eyebrows, quite certain that the last comment was directed at him, but Edward obviously misunderstood.

His nostrils flared, and Ed's petrifying glare was basically spitting sparks. "FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM _NOT_ SHORT!"

"Oh he didn't mean you, brother." said Al, glad that his position in the middle meant that he could act as a buffer between an enraged Edward and a startled Major Gabel.

Gabel's eyes widened to the size of dishes. "So you _do_ get angry when people call you short."

"I AM _NOT –_ "

"I didn't catch your name the last time, Major Gabel." interjected Al calmly, swiftly changing the direction of their conversation.

"It's Gabel."

"I meant your first name." corrected Al, stifling a laugh.

"Oh…" the major was definitely very red in the face now. "Thomas. Just Thomas."

"You actually seem like a pretty decent person, Thomas." remarked Edward dryly. "Why are you working for Rourke?"

"I owe the general for helping me with my State Alchemist application." said Thomas in a strangely bashful manner. "I would never have achieved my dream if it weren't for him."

Edward snorted and went back to staring out the window.

"What alchemy do you specialize in?" asked Alphonse, more out of academic interest than common courtesy.

"My father owns a coal mine, so uhm… I learnt how to use alchemy to make explosives at a young age. My specialty is the pinpoint destruction of objects." answered Gabel quietly. "It's why I'm called the Shatter Alchemist."

At the window, Edward froze at his words.

Al had to struggle to scoop his jaw off the floor of the car. "…What?"

No doubt that both brothers were thinking of the same person – a now dead but once _very_ dangerous alchemist.

"I know." Gabel laughed softly, directing his gaze downwards. "Do you think…do you think I can still help people? Even with alchemy such as mine?"

Alphonse thought of Kimblee. He thought of Major Armstrong and Teacher. He even thought of Shou Tucker. And of course, the notion of destruction always brought to mind thoughts of the colonel.

Some of them destroyed. Others created. But at the end of the day, did it really matter?

Al smiled encouragingly. "I'm sure you can."

Gabel beamed, but Alphonse missed the broad smile which stretched across the major's face as all three of them were jerked rudely from their seats when the vehicle screeched to a sudden stop.

"Wha – what happened?" asked Edward, rubbing a painful spot on his forehead where he'd rammed it into the window.

Miles turned around from his position at the driver's seat, strangely pale even in the intense heat. "I think we're here."

"About time." grumbled Edward, flinging open his door and swinging himself out of the jeep.

Alphonse was a mere several steps behind his brother as Edward shielded his eyes with a hand, squinting against the glare of the sun.

His footsteps crunched strangely on the sandy ground as Al strode forwards to stand at Edward's shoulder.

He felt his breath catch as his vision saw past the shimmering glare and the scene before them emerged as if from a buried nightmare.

Edward whispered precisely two words underneath his breath.

" _Holy crap._ "

* * *

He hated this place.

And yet, the paradox of it being, he could never stop being drawn to it.

Evan Blake stared down at the faded bouquet in his hands, his knuckles white as he gripped the naked stalks. It was a little wilted, having being purchased before they'd all driven out to the desert.

 _White lilies for innocence. Pink carnations for remembrance. Red roses for love. Golden chrysanthemums for death._

Xander watched quietly by his side, respectfully giving his grieving cousin sufficient space. His fingers rested cautiously on the strap of his rifle, red eyes darting back and forth along the rim of the low valley.

Evan breathed out slowly and shut his eyes.

 _Fire. It always started with fire._

He creased his forehead as he was sucked further into the memory. He was in two places at once – the hot afternoon of the physical world, the sun beating mercilessly down on his bare head; the cool daybreak of his mind, a boy awake in his bed, sweat trickling like beads of fear down his back.

Reality flickered and faded out of focus. He gave in, and let the cold light of dawn take him.

 _He remembered being started awake by the sounds – strange, booming explosions thundering dangerously close. Now he knew that they were simply the loud after-effects of rapidly expanding air, but at the time it sounded like all hell had broken loose._

 _A distant alarm blared._

 _Then the screams started._

 _Tumbling out of his bed to fling open his door._

 _The heat slammed into him like a shockwave – his house was on_ fire _._

Mother, mother! _But she's not there, she doesn't answer._

 _He charges into the nursery next door to snatch up his wailing baby sister. Flames lick at the ceiling, and the wooden crib Father had made for her is burning. She's crying louder than she's ever cried before, but it's too dark to see if she's hurt._

 _He swaddles her in his jacket. The smoke is horribly thick now, stinging his throat and tearing his eyes._ Mother – _mother isn't there, but the master bedroom is completely engulfed by fire._

 _All he remembers after that is running. And running. And running._

It feels like he hadn't stopped since.

A cool wetness on his palm brought him back, and Evan looked down to see that the thorny rose stalks had pierced his skin.

He couldn't bring himself to enter his once-home, so he knelt down and placed the small bouquet on the doorstep.

Evan wiped down his hands on his cargo pants, smearing the old fabric with dark blood. Xander stood nearby, watching both him and their surroundings.

"Xander?" muttered Evan.

Xander turned his head, one eyebrow raised in unspoken enquiry.

"How did it feel? When the Iron-Blood Alchemist died?" Evan didn't meet his gaze, keeping his face warily angled to the clear skies as he posed the question.

Xander licked sand-encrusted lips, face solemn as he pondered the best way to answer. Evan knew that his older cousin would respond truthfully and with complete seriousness.

"I…don't know." Xander finally admitted. "Even though he was responsible for the decimation of my hometown and family, I…I didn't really feel any different. A vague 'he had it coming' sort of feeling, but then…nothing."

"Nothing?" Evan whirled around, advancing on his cousin. "Are you _sure_?"

Xander nodded his head severely. "Because it didn't change anything. One alchemist being murdered on the streets didn't change anything – the military still stands, the government still reigns, and Ishval remains a pile of broken ruins buried in the sand. What was I _supposed_ to feel?"

Evan stopped in mid-step, barely two feet away from Xander. The latter stared at him resolutely, eyes unblinking and calm. "But…there must be _something_. There must be _some_ way to stop this aching burn in my heart."

Xander was silent for a moment. "Let it go, Evan."

Evan laughed quietly. "Can't you see? I _can't_."

Xander opened his mouth as if to respond, but both cousins froze at a strange rumbling in the distance.

Engines.

Xander swivelled, efficiently retrieving his rifle from his shoulder and using the scope to peer at the edges of the valley District 27 was nestled snugly in. "They're here." he muttered, recognizing the military-standard vehicles being driven and parked in the sand. His voice was half-shock and half-awe. "How did they find us?"

"It doesn't matter." said Evan, already turning to leave. "We have to warn the others."

Xander nodded in agreement before crouching down to pick up Evan's flowers.

In a flash of movement, Evan had grabbed him by the collar and slammed Xander back into the wall. " _What_ do you think you're doing?"

Xander winced but gazed unyieldingly back. "If we leave the flowers, they'll know we were here."

Evan gritted his teeth. "I. Don't. Care."

Xander furrowed his eyebrows, easily pushing Evan out of his personal space with a swipe of his arm. "Stop acting like a child, Evan! Let's go."

Evan breathed in and out raggedly, as if it physically pained him to do this.

Xander rubbed the back of his head, where he _had_ felt some of that physical pain.

"Okay." whispered Evan, and Xander could almost see his young cousin die a little bit more inside. "Let's go."

It didn't take long for the two of them to disappear into the vast golden desert of their homeland, the sole indication of their presence a single rose petal fluttering away on a stray breeze.

* * *

Edward rolled onto his back, staring up at the underside of the canvas tent he shared with Alphonse and reflected on how thoroughly _useless_ he'd been today.

For starters, they hadn't found Mustang.

It wasn't like he hadn't expected it – but the sheer reality of it was still a slap in the face nonetheless. Especially since it'd taken their small group the entire _day_ just to search every last partially collapsed house and building from top to bottom.

Nothing, just an abandoned ghost town which reverberated with the echoes of war.

So their second day of the search had been absolutely wasted, and they had less than a day left to cover the _remaining_ ninety-five percent of Ishval. Oh well, maybe if they were _lucky_ they'll find his corpse in the next month or so.

No, no, that was terrible. That was a terrible joke. He didn't mean that.

He didn't mean that…

Ed had dozed somewhat throughout his first night in the desert, exhausted by all that running around in the sun, but now he felt far too fidgety to go back to sleep.

Sitting up in his thin sleeping bag, Edward wrapped his arms around his knees and suppressed a rogue shiver.

He felt useless for being so thrown off by this _place._

Everywhere he looked, there were deep burn marks in the rock and blackened debris scattering the street. The analytical part of his brain recognized them as signs of instantaneous combustion; the other, less logical part shivered and blanched because it simply _recognized_ them. Marks left by an alchemy he was so familiar with it wasn't even funny – he'd seen the same scorches on his own alchemized walls every time he challenged the colonel to an impromptu alchemy match.

At least he now knew that Mustang had always been holding back.

No matter how many books he'd read or how much Hawkeye had patiently told him about her time in Ishval, war certainly was different up close. The devastated landscape filled Edward with irrational fears for the future.

What if the current Fuhrer ordered his friends to war yet again? And if not this one, then what about the next? Or the next? Or the next? Or worse, what if Mustang would someday be the one giving out that order?

Feeling restless, Edward crawled out of his tent and into the dimness of pre-dawn. The desert was surprisingly cool, and he stood there for a few moments, brushing sand off his trousers and letting the cold air fill his lungs.

He strolled over to where their vehicles were parked on the sand, a few metres away from where they'd set up camp. One of them was missing – Hawkeye, Breda, and Havoc had left an hour ago to scout out Sersa's desert surroundings more thoroughly for clues or tyre tracks. Scar had gone with them as a guide.

They all knew it was a long shot. The desert winds were strong, and the sands were constantly shifting as a result. It would be nigh impossible to find any tracks which were more than a day old.

A cheerful voice startled him out of his brooding reverie. "Morning, brother!"

"Morning, Al." responded Edward listlessly. "Did I wake you?"

"No, not really." Al paused. "Maybe a little."

Edward sighed and murmured an apology before sitting down. Alphonse joined him.

Together the brothers stared out at the darkened structures of the dead Ishvalan town.

"I was thinking, brother…" started Al, sounding disgustingly cheerful for such an ungodly hour.

"Mm hmm?" murmured Edward, resting his chin on his knees.

"Our friends in Central have all been very busy, haven't they?" continued Alphonse. "It just got me thinking… What should we do once we get back to Resembool?"

"Uh?" asked Edward, surprised by the odd question.

"I feel like even though our journey is over, it's not _really_ over." said Alphonse, shifting his feet so that he was sitting cross-legged on the sand. "Everyone's still working so hard. It makes me feel like I should be striving for something too."

Edward cocked his head. If this was Al's way of distracting him from his darker thoughts, it was definitely working. "Yeah…You have a point."

Al smiled. "I've been thinking of travelling to Xing after all this is over. To learn Eastern Alkahestry from May. Maybe then I can use my knowledge to help even more people."

Edward's own lips quirked in an irrepressible smile. Alphonse's optimism was contagious. "And if you're going East, then I guess I'll go West! Who knows what strange alchemy awaits me beyond the borders of Amestris?"

The Elrics shared a grin. "But," Edward raised a finger in the air. "Even if we _do_ leave Resembool to travel, you have to promise me that we'll be back to visit mother's grave every year."

Al raised an eyebrow, amused. "What about father's grave?"

Edward scoffed. "Who cares about that jerk?" he paused. "Though, I guess we could just visit him when we visit mom – I mean, as an on-the-way thing."

Al laughed softly. Edward gazed at his brother in awe. "You really are incredible, Alphonse."

"Am I?"

Edward grinned. "I don't know what I'll do without you."

Alphonse gave Edward a strangely serious look. "The same goes for me, brother."

Ed's grin widened, and faltered as a sudden thought struck him. "Hey… Remember what Madam Christmas said?"

Al cocked his head, listening.

"Today's the day Blake's wife died." muttered Edward, shooting to his feet and pacing across the sand as the gears of his quick mind whirred and rotated. "Think about it. If they're in Ishval, what would be the first thing they'd do?"

Al's face dawned with understanding. "They'll visit her grave."

"Or in this case, just the place she died, I'm assuming." said Ed, voice rising with excitement. "You know, we never did check out the rest of this place for strange tyre tracks."

Alphonse smiled widely. "It's worth a try, brother."

It took them another two hours to circle the town, and by then the sun was already a brilliant circle of light in the cloudless azure sky.

But it was all worth it.

Edward stared at a pair of unfamiliar tyre tracks stamped into the sand just outside the town. On the absolute opposite side from where they'd left their own vehicles.

And these tracks, although a little faded from the shifting desert sands, were still quite visible – and Edward thanked their good fortune that the winds hadn't been strong last night. They snaked like patterned ribbons over the flat stretch of uncharted land, leading awayfrom Guran.

"Alphonse?"

"Yes, brother?"

"You're a damn genius."

* * *

Okay, let's take it from the top.

Step One: Wait for the right moment.

Step Two: Break out of his restraints.

Step Three: ?

Roy Mustang would have promptly facepalmed if he could. This had to be one of the worst plans he had ever come up with in a _very_ long history of bad ideas.

But he'd already decided that he wasn't going to die tomorrow. Someday, maybe, but not tomorrow.

After all, he'd promised her.

All or nothing.

His captors already seemed to be in a state of disarray, after Xander had burst into the room and hissed something to Xandria (who, ever since their conversation that morning, had proceeded to promptly ignore him).

There was no hiding the surprise and distress in Xandria's voice: " _What?_ How – Does Uncle know?"

The siblings conversed further in low and urgent voices as Roy strained to catch the words. There was a beat of silence as they finally realized that there was someone else in the room and Xandria ushered Xander out to continue their discussion elsewhere.

He was left alone for the majority of the day, which merely gave him more time to steam and stress over his escape plan and what exactly had gotten the siblings into such a frenzy.

The next morning (or afternoon, considering that the only way he was gauging time was by the slight changes in temperature), he awoke from a short doze to the soft rustle of pages being turned.

"Xandria?" he guessed.

"Xander." corrected his guard. Somewhere in the room, the soft twangs of a country jig played from an unseen radio. It buzzed with static as Xander re-tuned it to the news channel.

"Mm, morning?"

"Afternoon." Xander corrected again. Roy waited to see if Xander would say anything else, but apparently he was a man of few words.

Roy settled back down to his waiting game. The radio announced one piece of breaking news after another, and Roy felt himself tense at every single one, almost anticipating that one outlandish announcement that the Fuhrer had suddenly decided to grant Ishval independence.

Assuming that Fullmetal had understood his message, there was little to no chance of that happening – perhaps the past week had just made Roy a little paranoid.

He was distracted partway through a report on yesterday's badminton tournament (East City won!) at the sound of someone charging in, door slamming so hard against the wall the room seemed to tremble.

Xander switched off the radio. "Evan? What is it?"

"We need you downstairs. _Now._ " Evan's gruff voice sounded from the doorway, and Roy felt every last muscle in his body coil apprehensively.

"What happened?" asked Xander, chair creaking as he rose.

But Evan's footsteps were already ringing back down the hallway, and Xander hurried to catch up, the door closing behind him with a telltale _click_.

Roy held his breath and waited.

 _One… Two… Three…_

He patiently counted to ten and confidently asserted that he could no longer hear any sounds outside his door.

Now or never.

Twisting around and wincing as metal grated painfully against skin, Roy touched his palms together and closed his eyes.

Having already deducted that his shackles were made out of common iron-carbon alloy, the right transmutation was swiftly located and he felt them literally disintegrate at his touch.

Rubbing his sore wrists, he quickly clapped and touched his freed hands to the ropes binding his ankles. The fibres promptly crumbled and unwound, and Roy had to use the adjacent wall as support while he struggled to climb to his feet.

Cursing the numbness in his limbs and the pain in his injured leg, he limped awkwardly towards the door and groped around for the door handle.

It was locked, but it was nothing a brief clap and the miraculous touch of alchemy couldn't fix.

Roy Mustang had always considered himself a bit of an atheist (and really, who could blame him?) but as he cautiously made his way down the outer corridor, one hand braced against the wall to guide him, he sent a brief prayer of gratitude up to whatever god who may be listening that not one of his abductors had taken his ability to perform alchemy without transmutation circles into account. Quite frankly, while it wasn't common knowledge, he hadn't been very careful about his display of clap-alchemy during his time in Sersa (and especially in front of Blake), so if he had to give credit to something, he thanked sheer misinformation with a bit of luck thrown in.

His hands felt door after door as he shuffled down the hallway as quietly it was reasonably possible for someone with a bad leg. Roy soon realized that the building was much larger than he'd first thought, and he'd been walking far longer than was comfortable without finding at least a staircase.

A door creaked open somewhere ahead of him.

Roy panicked and searched frantically for a room he could quickly duck into. He froze at the sound of a soft voice, feeling like a rabbit caught dead in the headlights.

"Mr. Roy?"

He relaxed, just a little. "Asther?"

Asther's small footsteps were instantly distinguishable as she stepped lightly towards him. "How…" her voice was bewildered. "Are you trying to leave, Mr. Roy?"

Roy briefly considered lying before deciding that while Asther might be a child, she was no fool – and there really was only one explanation as to why he would be lurking about the corridors like a guilty schoolboy.

"Yes." he replied honestly after a moment's hesitation. "I…I have to leave, Asther. Or else –"

He froze a second time as hasty footsteps pounded up what sounded like a flight of wooden stairs.

A small hand grabbed his wrist. "Quickly!" hissed Asther as Roy was unceremoniously yanked into the nearest room.

He tripped over the raised threshold, banging his knee on the floor. Asther pulled the door shut and hunkered down next to him as several pairs of running footsteps passed by their hiding spot, harsh voices raised in trepidation.

Something big seemed to be going on outside.

"Xander told me your friends were close by." whispered Asther as if in explanation. "He said he saw them when he visited my old home."

Roy blinked, unsure of how to react to this. He hadn't realized that he'd given up all hope of being found a long time ago.

But they were _here_ , in Ishval at the very least, and Roy couldn't tell if he was touched by their concern or simply impressed by their deductive skills.

"Cousin Xandria said that we should leave while we still can, but my brother was equally confident that Ishval is too big a place and they wouldn't be able to locate us easily." Asther stood and skipped away. Roy remained crouched on the floor, rubbing his aching knee.

There was a whispery _swoosh!_ of blinds being raised, and Roy realized that Asther was looking out the window.

"I guess my brother was wrong."

Roy rose to his feet and joined her. "What do you see?"

"Black jeeps. The kind that you use on rough terrain. And people getting out – the blonde-haired general and the golden boy with the angry face." described Asther, her voice almost ghostly and ethereal.

Roy raised one eyebrow. "Rourke and Fullmetal? What are _they_ doing here?"

"I don't see the lieutenant," continued Asther. "The tall one with the gentle smile and amber eyes."

"Alright." said Roy, head already spinning with a thousand possibilities. Perhaps he should just stay put and wait for them instead of running the risk of being caught on the way out. "What are they doing now?"

"The general…He's, I think that's a megaphone he's holding. He's saying something but I can't hear what it is – these windows are very thick."

Asther paused, observing. "The golden-haired boy seems angry. He's shouting at the general but there are people keeping him from getting too close."

Roy frowned, suddenly a little uneasy. Rourke was the last person on _earth_ he trusted as his hostage negotiator.

"The general is ordering people to go in," said Asther, her voice rising with her anxiety.

A sharp gunshot permeated the air.

Asther gasped. "Someone's shot!"

"What? Who?" asked Roy urgently, heart constricting in fear even though he wasn't sure who else was out there. But Edward was – and that was reason enough.

"I don't know. I think Xander did it. There are walls going up now – the other golden-haired boy is using his alchemy. The general is shouting again, I think he's giving us a warning." Asther hesitated, as if she wasn't sure what she was seeing.

"Asther? Asther, what's going on?"

"I – There's this other man with blonde hair. The major who's always following the general around."

"You mean Major Gabel?"

"I think so. The general is ordering him to do something now. He's hesitating but – he's drawing something in the sand. It looks…like a circle?"

Roy felt his blood run cold. "Asther. Get away from the window."

There was a rustle of skirts as Asther turned to face him. "Why?"

Instead of answering, Roy reached out and grabbed what felt like her arm, dragging Asther away from the wall. Every last nerve in his body screamed at him – and his instincts were usually spot on.

Even through the closed window, Roy could now hear vague shouts and yells from down below. And above them all, a piercing cry in a familiar voice:

" _No!_ "

He was wholly unprepared for what happened next.

There was a mighty crackle and a crash, and Roy felt a violent tremor pass through the ground beneath his feet.

There was no time to think.

One arm around Asther's slender frame, he pushed them both to the floor as the crash grew into a terrible roar.

 _Sound. Noise. Static._

And the entire world collapsed around them.


	13. Chapter 12 - Snow

**Author's Note:**

 **I. Am. BACK! (Finally!)**

 **It's been one heck of a month T-T And as a result my writing gears are a little rusty, but let's see how long I can keep updating this regularly.  
**

 **All credits go to Lixx22 for being my awesome beta reader.**

 **A big hello and thank you to all readers old and new (because you know the only thing I love as much as writing is you guys)! As always (since I haven't said this in nearly five weeks XD) please drop me a review, favourite or follow if you think this was worth your time!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, though it'll be pretty awesome if I did (nah).**

 **Merry (very early) Christmas as well! (It just seemed to fit with the theme).**

* * *

 _Chapter 12 – Snow_

 _ **East City, Amestris**_

 _ **25**_ _ **th**_ _ **December, 1913**_

She still remembered the one, and the only, time he'd asked her that question.

And the answer she'd given.

It was the Christmas of 1913.

East City always looked her most glamorous during the festive season, the faded shopfronts and snow-covered streets decked out in brilliantly shining Christmas lights of red and green and white. It was a dress the city donned only in the bitter cold of winter, a fancy outfit of mistletoe on every door and a grand thirty-foot tall Christmas tree dominating their usually bleak town square.

The East City Public School choir sang Christmas carols underneath that tree every year – a congregation of young girls and boys dressed smartly in pale blue uniforms. Government funding had been scarce since the Ishval Civil War, so the school ran various events around the city to collect donations from the people.

A woman in military wear paused along the glimmering white footpath to listen to their song, a faint smile gracing her lips.

 _Silent night, holy night,_

 _All is calm, all is bright…_

"Lieutenant! There you are."

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye closed her eyes at the familiar voice, sighed, and turned to drop a ten thousand cenz bill into the donation box. The children beamed at her, their voices seeming to resonate louder in the frigid night:

 _Round yon virgin,_

 _Mother and child,_

 _Holy infant so tender and mild,_

 _Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace…_

She turned around fully to regard her superior officer, who was cursing to himself as he shook half-melted snow out of his shoes. "Damn it. All this snow is ruining my new shoes."

Riza cocked one eyebrow impassively. "I already suggested that you should've worn your snow boots, sir."

Colonel Roy Mustang simply gave her a dead-eyed look. "Don't say I told you so."

"I told you so." returned Riza promptly.

Swivelling on her heel, she paused in consideration before adding: "Sir."

Roy grumbled something in return, his reply lost in between the folds of the woollen scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and face – a handmade birthday present from Gracia. Riza had to discreetly put her hand to her mouth to conceal the smile there as he tugged the scarf as far up as it would go, trying to hide the rosy tint colouring his cheeks.

For some odd reason or another, or perhaps due to his paler-than-usual complexion, Roy had a tendency to visibly flush in cold weather. It was a well-known Eastern Command joke that the only time one had the honour of seeing the great Roy Mustang blush was during winter.

Once Roy had caught up with her, Riza Hawkeye easily fell into step behind him, taking up her customary position as adjutant and unofficial bodyguard.

Accompanied by Roy's relentless string of mumbled complaints, the two military officers trudged down the snow-laden path towards the more desolate part of East City. The further they walked, the dimmer the streetlights seemed, and the faint sounds of celebrative laughter and Christmas music gradually faded behind them.

Eventually, they found themselves standing in front of a darkened wooden building. The rotting sign above their heads cheerlessly announced the structure to be the 'East City Golden Globe Theatre'.

Roy gave an extra long sigh of painful longing. "I can't believe we're working on Christmas night –"

Riza glanced down at the slip of paper she'd hastily scribbled the address on. "An anonymous witness report states that our target was spotted entering this building a few hours ago."

" – while Havoc and the others are at the bar downtown celebrating with complementary free drinks."

Riza continued to pretend she hadn't heard him. "I should remind you sir, that this man is both a notorious arsonist and a known serial killer, so absolute vigilance is necessary in this operation."

"But it's Christmas! If dangerous criminals can't have more respect for my personal schedule, can't they at _least_ have some sort of regard for a nationwide public holiday?"

Riza glanced over at him and shook her head. "You knew what you were getting yourself into when you became a colonel."

Roy pressed his lips together, tipped his face to the snowing sky, and groaned loudly. "But…State Alchemists have rights too." he protested weakly.

Riza resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she climbed the once-grand staircase to the entrance.

Smoothly extracting her handgun from its holster, Riza gestured for Roy to stand back as she cautiously tested the doorknob.

The double doors flung open with a teeth-grinding creak.

Riza put one foot over the threshold, allowing her vision a few moments to adjust to the waiting darkness. The abandoned building's interior was dusty and forlorn, the multiple rows of velvet seats lining the walls now broken and splintered. The entrance opened onto another flight of stairs, leading down towards the grand stage.

It was too dark to accurately tell if any of the mismatched shapes scattering the ground were overturned furniture or a suspect disguised as overturned furniture, and Riza quietly cursed her own incompetency for neglecting to bring a flashlight.

 _Click!_

The spotlight above the stage flared to life, flooding the empty wooden structure with brilliant, white light. Riza blinked once, momentarily blinded, and pivoted, almost certain to find –

"Relax, lieutenant."

Riza glared at Roy, who had a hand on the large panel of switches next to the door. "You needed light, didn't you?"

It was hard to argue with the colonel when he was feeling particularly clever and smug with himself, so Riza had to be content with simply frowning at him as he swept past her airily.

"Sir!" she called out, amber eyes flicking from side to side as she scanned the shadowy walls. "What happened to practicing _caution_?"

Roy waved a hand flippantly as he gave the empty seats a routine glance-over. "Witness reports are hardly ever accurate, lieutenant. I'd say our perpetrator is either long gone, or was never here in the first place." He undid his scarf, stuffing it into the deep pocket of his black overcoat. "You take the upper floor. I'll handle this one."

Riza shot him a wary look. "Please be careful, sir."

Roy's only response was the lazy kicking over of a broken chair leg.

Riza sighed in resignation. He never listened.

The first floor was empty save for a few VIP seating lounges and a back room where they kept extra cleaning supplies and props. Riza re-holstered her handgun and made her way back down to the stage.

She sometimes hated it when he was right.

She found Roy, having completely abandoned any and all pretence of being hard at work, sitting at the dusty grand piano onstage as he tuned an old violin.

The overhead lights glinted like snow in his dark hair as he plucked the E-string, and it emitted a high-pitched _twang!_ in reply. "Did you find anything?"

Riza shook her head once in answer to his question and strode towards the piano – which had been probably been used by the theatre's ensemble players once upon a time – running a finger along the grimy monochromatic keys.

 _It's been so long._

She experimentally tapped one of them. It responded with a pure, tinkling sound, the whisper of a long-ago melody.

She smiled. Her fingers seemed to move of their own accord, the simple notes conjoining into the tune of childhood nursery rhyme.

She'd nearly forgotten. The feeling of ivory keys beneath her fingers, sinking and rising at her lightest touch.

Just like the trigger of her gun.

She looked up to the thoughtful gaze of a pair of bright obsidian eyes.

"You used to play the piano during my apprenticeship days." commented Roy, fiddling with the wooden pegs of his newfound violin. "I don't remember seeing it the last time I was back at the Hawkeye mansion."

"I sold it shortly after you left." Riza dusted off the leather covering of the piano bench, sitting on its edge so she was back-to-back with the colonel. "Father's medical bills were expensive."

He stopped fussing over the violin. "You should've told me."

Riza pursed her lips. This conversation was over a long time ago. "I didn't want to."

There was a rustling of fabric as Roy stood. Riza glanced up curiously to find him tucking the edge of the violin in between his shoulder and chin.

He leaned down to pick up the violin bow he'd left on the floor, absentmindedly dusting it off on his pants. "Well, lieutenant? How about a customary Christmas tune before we go?"

Riza raised her eyebrows. "You can play the violin?"

Roy shrugged casually, but the way he straightened his spine screamed self-satisfaction. "Madam was rather adamant about me learning an instrument. She said that girls generally find musically talented men very attractive." He winked playfully.

Riza remained resolutely unimpressed. "Does she also know that you're nearing thirty and still single?"

Roy winced. "That was a low blow, lieutenant. You know that I have no shortage of ravishing dates if I were serious about them."

Riza swung her legs over the bench and positioned herself in a better playing position. She tested a few notes, blew off the settled dust on the keys, and poised her fingers over the piano. "Let's see if I can still remember this."

After a few discordant false starts, Riza's fingers found the opening chords of _Joy to the World_. It was, she mused, very much like being behind the scope of her rifle – blurry and uncertain at first, but as everything resolved into a sharp clarity, her hands seemed to spark with a life of their own.

The crystalline notes eased out of the once dormant instrument at her coaxing touch.

 _A woman with golden hair and kind eyes, sitting next to her at the piano as they played a Christmas duet – she a child, still stumbling over the right tune; the woman making up for her young incompetency with her nimbly dancing fingers and lovely singing voice, as clear and bright as sunshine._

She couldn't remember exactly when he joined her – but before she knew it, his violin was singing the same sweet melody as her piano. The instruments hummed and resonated in tandem, complementing each other flawlessly.

It was a dance of sorts, this duet of theirs. It seemed to Riza that they were always dancing, stepping around an intangible circle, impossibly close but never touching – yes, this was the game of façades and politics they were cursed to play.

Silently, her lips moved to form the lyrics.

 _No more let sins and sorrows grow,_

Her hands slowed, as if they'd forgotten how the rest of the melody went.

 _Nor thorns infest the ground;_

She stopped in the middle of the chorus, letting her fingertips rest just above the keys.

 _He comes to make his blessings flow,_

Riza sighed, a soft, tired sound. " _Far as the curse is found._ "

"Lieutenant?" Roy stumbled to a stop mid-bow, the final notes of their song spiralling like snowflakes through the still night.

Riza breathed in deeply. "That's enough for now, sir. We should get back to Eastern Command."

Roy made a face that was between a grimace and a pout. "Well, could we at least stop by that bar I was talking about?"

"No." answered Riza as she got to her feet, frowning thoughtfully. Something smelled a little off about the air in this place. "We still have work tomorrow, and I don't want you hungover."

Roy turned to lay his violin on top of the piano. "You're no fun, lieutenant."

"Then I apologize for my lack of fun –" The slip of a shadow in the side wings caught her eye, and Riza glanced up, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her.

Behind the tattered theatre curtain, a strange silhouette appeared.

"Colonel!"

"Hmm?" Before he could even fully turn around, Riza had dived sideways, her hands slamming into his shoulders as she professionally tackled him to the ground.

The sound of a gunshot permeated the stagnant air, followed by a dull _twack!_ as the resulting bullet embedded itself in the side of the piano.

Riza rolled, already on her feet with her gun poised in between her hands as she rapidly scanned the surrounding shadows.

Roy was crouched beside her, silent and tense as he pulled on an ignition glove.

They locked eyes once, and he nodded, an unspoken gesture for her to take the Prompt Side while he went around the stage to cut their assailant off.

Riza licked dry lips, communicating with a flicker of her eyes that she understood before slowly moving towards where she'd last spotted the unknown gunman.

The red curtains billowed eerily, the old fabric dulled by age to the colour of dried blood. Riza stepped around them, finding herself in the backstage area.

Her breathing slow and steady, Riza advanced further through the darkened corridors, the only sound in this claustrophobic space the creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet and the pounding of her heart in her ears.

A muffled clatter sounded behind her.

Riza whirled, gun cocked and raised, only to find herself staring into the black barrel of another gun.

Riza narrowed her eyes. With their respective owners being less than a few feet apart, the two handguns were almost close enough to touch. The face behind the second gun was shrouded in shadow, but Riza had no difficulty in recognizing him as their target.

"I commend you, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Not many people can stare straight into the muzzle of a loaded gun without so much as flinching."

"Surrender now," commanded Riza impassively. "At this distance, I never miss."

A laugh, high-pitched and ringing. "Well, neither do I."

"Lieutenant!"

Riza had to forcefully keep herself from looking back reflexively. "Colonel, I recommend you stay where you are."

Roy completely ignored her recommendation, and she could hear the anxious edge to his footsteps as he approached her back. "Put the gun down, criminal."

Riza inhaled irritably.

He never listened.

"Colonel Mustang, so nice of you to join us." said the man, but Riza could still feel his unmoving gaze on her. "Just in time too. I have a question for you, colonel."

"You're in no place to be asking questions." The barely repressed fury in the colonel's voice was all too audible to Riza. "Put the gun down."

Riza blinked. That strange smell. It was stronger here.

The man drawled right over his words. "So, colonel – you and the lady lieutenant. Now, you two are quite the East City legend, but I wonder…what exactly is your relationship with each other?"

Riza stiffened. Almost directly behind her, Roy remained dangerously silent.

"Or rather," continued their fugitive. "Is her safety more important to you than the capture of one measly criminal? Because I assure you, I can definitely shoot faster than you can snap and set me on fire."

There was a taut moment of silence before Roy hissed: "You son of a _bitch_."

Riza stepped back cautiously. The smell in the air made it hard to think – a pungent scent, strangely familiar, but not instantly recognizable as it mingled with the existing smells of moth-eaten cloth and dusty furniture.

The heel of her right shoe splashed right into a puddle of water.

 _No, not water._

It all clicked into place, and Riza swore softly underneath her breath. If that smell was what she _thought_ it was…she needed to end this, fast.

Riza felt her fingers clench around her handgun in heady anticipation. "Sir, get down _now!_ "

Before her target could completely react, Riza ducked out of the direct aim of his gun and swept one foot around, driving the hard edge of her boot into his shin.

Their fugitive cursed once as he toppled backwards, his gun going off.

The flash of igniting gunpowder illuminated the darkness briefly, and something far above them shattered.

The man regained his balance faster than Riza had anticipated, twisting to aim the muzzle of his gun at her head.

Riza heard the telltale sound of rustling fabric, and against her own better judgement, tore her eyes away from her attacker to shout at Roy: "No, _don't!_ "

 _Snap!_

An almost blinding streak of fire arced through the air, engulfing the man's hand with pinpoint accuracy.

He screamed in agony, his scorched gun clattering to the floor.

The flames died as quickly as they had flared, but not fast enough. A spark or two flickered as they spiralled to the floor.

And ignited the waiting pool of gasoline at their feet.

Riza lurched back instinctively as the flames blazed to life, licking up the fuel-soaked wooden walls.

"Wha – damn it!" Roy dodged out of the way as part of a flaming cardboard tree peeled off and missed him by a few inches. "Using gasoline against the Flame Alchemist? Are you insane?"

"I'd rather die than go to prison!" The man laughed almost manically as he knelt on the fire-wreathed ground, nursing his charred hand. "So I thought, since I've decided to die, why not take the two of you with me –"

Riza marched forwards and expertly slammed the heavy butt of her gun into the side of his head, causing the man to falter mid-sentence and slump over, groaning. With the assailant momentarily incapacitated, she efficiently handcuffed and hauled him to his feet. "We were careless. He must have poured fuel all over the stage while we were distracted with our…little performance. That was why I didn't notice the smell until right after."

"However it happened, I should have been more vigilant." Roy swore sharply as he tried to extinguish a patch of flames by cutting off its oxygen supply with the transmutation circles on his gloves, only to have them flare to life again almost immediately.

Riza covered her mouth with the sleeve of her military uniform, eyes already watering from the smoke. "We have to get out of here."

Roy ran one hand through his hair in frustration, evidently giving up on using alchemy to combat his own flames. "Upstairs. I doubt we could get off this stage without sustaining a few injuries of our own."

Riza nodded and frogmarched their still-woozy captive towards the hidden flight of stairs backstage, Roy following close behind as he kept the majority of the fiery tongues from flicking too close.

The man still had the capacity to chuckle in amusement as Riza forced him up the narrow steps to the yet-untouched second floor. "It's a tall building, lady. Are you really thinking of jumping out the window?"

"You forget," said Roy, sweeping past Riza as he extracted a piece of chalk from his pocket. "I'm a State Alchemist."

Casting one disdainful look over his shoulder, Roy rapidly sketched a transmutation circle on the furthest wall and slammed his palm into its centre.

The wooden boards stretched and constricted in a crackle of energy, morphing into a steep slide curving down the building and into a soft snowdrift.

Roy swept into a mocking half-bow. "Ladies first."

Riza rubbed the headache beginning to form in between her eyebrows and pushed her handcuffed prisoner down the transmuted tunnel.

Roy raised his eyebrows at her blatant display of callous treatment.

"I thought it would be better if he went first." She explained seriously.

* * *

Nearly an hour after and the flames still hadn't died down.

Riza tapped Roy on the shoulder with the bottle of water she'd purchased at a nearby convenience store. He turned, blinked, and accepted it with a small smile.

Riza brushed snow off the sidewalk and sat down beside him, cracking open her own plastic bottle. "The military police have our arsonist in custody. I told them that interrogation efforts can wait till tomorrow."

Roy grunted vaguely in appreciation as he took a sip of water. Save for a few singed sleeves and scorched uniforms, the two military officers were miraculously unscathed.

A passing fireman dragging a heavy hose through the snow shot their resident walking fire hazard a dirty look. Roy simply smiled apologetically.

At Riza's criticizing stare, Roy shrugged and raised his hands in a show of innocence. "What? I offered to help but they wouldn't accept it."

"And I wonder why."Riza deadpanned.

"It's not like this happens very often." defended Roy. He paused in contemplation, tapping the base of his water bottle against the asphalt at their feet.

Riza calmly watched the as-yet-ongoing firefighting efforts. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Roy sighed, sweeping up his fringe of dark hair and letting it fall back over his forehead. "It's stupid."

Riza turned to fix her gaze on him, a wordless indication that he now had her full attention.

"It's just…something that arsonist said. Something I've never thought about before today." muttered Roy, not meeting her eyes.

"What exactly are ' _we_ ' to each other?"

Riza regarded him in silence.

"Is this off-record, sir?"

"Of course it is." He still wouldn't look at her.

"Then…I don't know."Riza answered honestly. "All I know is…it's my duty to protect you."

"Why, then?" Roy snapped his eyes up to hers, the dying flames from the old theatre rippling like an aurora borealis across the pitch black of his intense stare. "What makes me worth protecting?"

Riza moved to answer, hesitated, and said slowly instead: "Because I believe that you can protect this country."

Roy had a knack for making people feel as if he could see right through their superficial masks and into their inner thoughts. He utilized that skill now, holding Riza's gaze for an instance longer than strictly necessary. But Riza, quite immune to any psychological tricks he may have up his sleeve, simply stared unyieldingly back.

Roy dropped his eyes first. "I see."

Exhaling noisily, he climbed to his feet and stretched. "We'd better get back. I'm going to be up all night writing the damage report for this."

"Well…" Riza drew out the syllable in between her lips, causing Roy to glance down at her curiously. "I think we've done enough work for one day."

Roy's glum mood magically dissipated as he brightened like a puppy finally allowed to play with its favourite person. "Lieutenant, does that mean…"

Riza stood and brushed off her pants. "Just promise me I won't have to ask Breda to drag you home dead drunk and passed out after."

"Oh, lieutenant!" Roy exclaimed in mock bashfulness. "I always knew that you were kind to me."

Riza raised an eyebrow. "Don't push it, sir."

Roy's only response was a long, hearty laugh, a pure and genuine sound which sent the edges of her lips curving upwards almost involuntarily.

Whether it was intentional or not, Riza was aware that she had lied.

For right there and then, she would have given anything to safeguard that bright laughter, and to keep the dancing light in his eyes from snuffing out.

Even if she knew that his smile was as transient and evanescent as the snow in her hair, she still wanted to hold it close to the warmth of her heart, until it melted and faded away in between her fingers.

And all that, had nothing to do with the wellbeing of Amestris.

And _everything_ to do with him.

* * *

In retrospect, it was a choice that should have been obvious.

The life of one person versus her proud and noble country. The country which she had donned her uniform and pinned on her stripes for.

Or was it?

For when it came down to it, what or who was her reason for picking up her gun with those bloodstained hands, over and over, even when some days it made her want to scream?

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye picked up the receiver and slotted in a handful of coins, listening to the clinking sound they made as they hit the bottom of the payphone.

She was surprised by her lack of hesitation as she swiftly spun the rotating dial in a series of numbers she had become well-acquainted with. She contemplated in amusement if this constituted a direct breach of orders.

But considering the ambiguous nature of said orders, the colonel could hardly court-martial her for this.

Riza shut her eyes, her heart seeming to beat in time to the monotonous _toot toot toot_ of the dial tone. Countless images of possible scenarios danced behind her eyelids – war and carnage and all the horrors she had witnessed. If Ishval were to successfully obtain independence from Amestris – left to its own devices, feelings of hatred and wrath would sprout everywhere like weeds in the summer.

But she couldn't let this end here.

 _It's my duty to protect you._

The line clicked, and an unknown female voice buzzed to life. "Hello? You have reached Central Command."

"This is Lieutenant Hawkeye calling from a phone booth due to an emergency." intoned Riza stoically.

"I'm sorry, but we're not permitted to relay direct calls from an outside line –"

"I have the verification code." cut in Riza, reciting the string of seemingly random letters and numbers she'd memorized since being transferred to Central.

There was a moment of silence, then the clearing of a throat. "Ahem, yes. The code has been verified. Who would you like to speak to?"

"Please connect me to the private office of Fuhrer Grumman."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think a lieutenant has the authorization to speak directly to the –"

"Tell him his granddaughter is on the line." interjected Riza, her voice growing hard. "And that it's _urgent._ "

* * *

Breda, Havoc and an emotionless Scar were the bizarre trio waiting for her when the first lieutenant stepped out of the bright red phone booth.

"It's done." Hawkeye told them, locking eyes with Breda and Havoc specifically. "He gave me his approval."

Breda raised both eyebrows in something akin to amazement. "He agreed, just like that?"

 _Riza? This is a surprise, I wasn't expecting you to call this week. How's the weather in Ser–_

 _Grandfather._ That must have been the defining point, the moment when Grumman ascertained that something was definitely off – Hawkeye, who was a stickler for keeping her personal life and military career as separate as possible, almost never referred to him as 'grandfather'.

 _I…I need your help._

"Yes," replied Hawkeye, sweeping past them to stride down the sidewalk. While they had driven out of the desert at early dawn, it was now late morning and the streets of Sersa were gradually filling with people going about their daily business. "I now have full authorization to negotiate with our abductors as a representative of the Fuhrer himself." Hawkeye half-turned, giving her two co-workers a hard stare. "Not that I'm planning on just handing over what they want, but this will at least buy us some time."

Unnoticed at her sides, Hawkeye's fists clenched tightly.

 _I…see. I also – I understand why you were so hesitant to tell me about this before, but Riza, don't you know that you can count on me?_

 _I didn't want you to be trapped in between your duty as Fuhrer and your duty to me. And I thought…I thought I could handle it._

 _But now you know you can't._

 _Grandfather –_

 _No, I understand. Do what you have to do. You still have the signet ring I gave you when I became Fuhrer, no?_

 _Yes, it's – I have it._

 _That ring has the official insignia of the Fuhrer. When I gave it to you, I told you that if you were ever to encounter an urgent situation which called for a position of power, then you could use my name as required. For what point is there in being the leader of Amestris if I cannot use it to protect the people closest to me? My name, my promise._

 _But sir –_

 _And now that day has come – I hereby grant you full and unconditional authority as my representative in this retrieval mission. The playing field is yours to command in any way you see fit, my dear Riza._

 _You…trust me?_

 _Of course I do, Riza. I trust that you will do what's best for Amestris, but also stay true to what's important to you. Don't worry about the other generals. Most of them can be griping old pests, but I'll handle them._

 _Thank you…grandfather._

 _You're welcome. And Riza? I sure hope you can bring him home to us._

The sound of Havoc's voice startled Hawkeye out of her brief reverie: "Hey, Hawkeye?"

She nodded once to indicate that she was listening, and Breda and Havoc exchanged uncertain glances.

"It's just…" started Havoc, his bright cerulean eyes darting agitatedly back and forth along the street of bustling stores. "Do you think we were right to do that?"

"You mean disobeying his orders and telling Fuhrer Grumman?" asked Hawkeye bluntly.

"No, I meant keeping the Elric brothers in the dark and leaving Falman and Fuery behind as decoys." said Havoc, his words slightly muffled as he chewed on the stub of his cigarette. "They're not children anymore, Hawkeye. And we should treat them as such."

Hawkeye stopped in mid-stride, forcing Havoc and Breda to check themselves before they could unintentionally careen straight into their queen.

"I didn't want to get their hopes up," she said quietly, her tone so soft that it was in peril of being snatched away by the buzzing wave of the surrounding crowd. "They've been through enough for one lifetime."

"But having hope is better than having no hope at all." argued Havoc, dropping his spent cigarette into a conveniently located trash can.

"And do you believe that there _is_ still hope?" They whirled around at the unexpected voice in almost complete synchronization.

For a hulking Ishvalan man whose superior height caused him to tower easily over all three of them, Scar could be surprisingly inconspicuous when he felt like it.

Breda cocked his head. "No offense, Scar… But shouldn't you be on the Ishvalan side on this one?"

Scar simply gave him an impassive look forceful enough that Breda started sweating. "There are no sides. Is that not the point of peace?"

"Never thought that'll be something I'll hear from you." commented Havoc lightly.

"Sides will always exist," said Hawkeye, not turning around. "Because differences between people will always exist, and hence conflict will always exist. But," she turned her head, locking gazes with the former Ishvalan priest. "Being an Ishvalan that once fought against and for the Amestrian side, you should have quite the unique perspective on our situation."

Scar easily evaded two Sersan locals who were staring at the strange foursome – an Ishvalan dressed in traditional desert garb plus three uniformed military officers engaged in a non-violent, perfectly civil conversation was indeed quite a sight to behold.

"All I can say is that I understand hate. But if there is one thing I've learnt after all these years of being blinded by anger and hatred." Scar extended one hand and fisted it, as if crushing an invisible object in the middle of his palm. "Is that this vicious cycle of pain has to end somewhere."

They stopped in front of their vehicle. For a fraction of a second, no one said anything.

Hawkeye bent down and opened the car door. "Thank you then, Scar. For helping us stop this cycle."

As her companions moved to get into their jeep, Hawkeye leaned over the wheel, the crackling sounds coming from their radio having caught her attention. "Hello?"

" _Thank god! I finally managed to reach you!"_

"Fuery?" asked Hawkeye incredulously as she slid into the driver's seat next to Scar. "What is it?"

" _We found him!"_

Hawkeye froze in the action of turning her keys in the ignition. "What?"

" _I mean, we're not sure yet but – The Elrics they found – And we were just leaving – Ugh…just get out here as fast as you can and I'll explain. We're currently about to head to another location from District 27 – hold on."_ There was a pause and some incessant conversation in the background. " _Major Miles says that he'll leave two of his men at our campsite to lead you to us._ "

"Fuery?" Breda yelled into the radio. "You're not making a whole lot of sense!"

" _Just –"_ the radio crackled. _"Transmission is unstable –"_

The line died completely.

Four pairs of eyes stared at the calmly buzzing radio in silence.

"What –" started Havoc. "The _hell_ happened?"

* * *

"What –" started Xandria, the volume of her voice increasing in direct proportion to her rising anger. "The _hell_ happened!?"

Her twin brother Xander simply shrugged, un-slinging the rifle from his shoulder with calm efficiency and taking up his sniper's position at the second floor window. "'What happened' is exactly what it looks like."

Xandria shot him a burning glare that would have cowed even the most decorated war hero. " _Oh!_ And _why_ , pray tell, is the _Amestrian military_ right outside our doorstep?"

Xander shrugged a second time.

"It's our fault." Evan remarked from where he was leaning casually against the doorframe. "We weren't careful enough when we ran into them at District 27."

"And we assumed that the wind would eventually obliterate our tracks," added Xander most helpfully. "I now understand why Uncle Blake is always lecturing us on why it's dangerous to make assumptions."

Xandria rested her forehead against the wall, breathing heavily as she tried to rein in her temper. "And you, Evan! How could you have been so _stupid?_ Can't your dumb alchemy do _anything_ at all!?"

All three Ishvalans froze at the volatile word.

Alchemy. The term may as well have been a miniature bomb detonated in the room.

Evan leaned back to peer into the dark hallway. "Quiet, Xandria."

Xandria pushed herself back from the wall and narrowed her eyes at Evan, not feeling very apologetic at all. "I still don't understand why you _insist_ on keeping your alchemy a secret from your father."

"My father is too traditional-minded. He wouldn't understand." Evan cocked his head, his ruby eyes every bit as sharp as his older cousin's. "And to answer your question, alchemy isn't magic – it doesn't work like that."

Xandria snorted. "For all your talk of alchemy being the ultimate weapon…and you can't even use it to cover your tracks?"

The easy smile on Evan's face instantly morphed into a dangerous snarl. "If we're done having this conversation, _Xandria_ , kindly direct your attention to the more immediate threat outside."

Xandria flung her hands up in exasperation. "I can't – I just can't _believe_ the two of you!"

Xander shrugged a third time. "Sorry?"

Xandria turned her fiery gaze upon her brother once more, and Xander – who was perfectly able to tell between his sister's _'stop-annoying-me'_ mood and her ' _I-am-really-_ really _-pissed-off-now'_ mood – wisely decided to busy himself by peering through the scope of his rifle. "Shall I do a headcount, sister?"

Xandria heaved a heavy sigh and whirled, instantly taking charge of the situation. "Evan, where's Asther and uncle?"

"I told my father to take Asther and hide in a safe place downstairs." said Evan, waving a hand lazily. "They'll be fine."

"Xander, what's the situation?"

"I count…eleven visible people. Wait, there's twelve – another officer is sitting in one of the jeeps with a radio." Xander raised an eyebrow. "That kid you knocked out and his brother are here too. Everyone else are all uniformed military personnel, save for two men sticking close to the general dude. And _phew_ , are there a _lot_ of guns here."

Evan moved to lean against the grimy window. "Thomas Gabel, the Shatter Alchemist. Alphonse Elric was never certified, but word is he's as good as his brother before Edward Elric lost his alchemy."

He paused. "Shoot them."

Xander froze and turned from his position at the window. "Excuse me?"

"You heard what I said – alchemists are dangerous. You should take them out now while you still have the chance."

Xander turned back, putting his eye to the scope. "No." He replied frostily. "I'm not about to _shoot_ someone who may or may not be a legitimate threat to us."

Evan clicked his tongue. "If you kill the tiger after it bites you, you'll still lose an arm. You've gone soft, Xander."

Xander gritted his teeth. It was rare to see his good-natured cousin get so worked up. "Evan, _shut up_ , now."

"Both of you, be quiet." Xandria snapped.

Evan turned his attention back to the window, stiffening as he watched the events unfold below. The blonde haired 'general dude' – Brigadier General Rourke, he recalled – was arguing with Major Miles, who had Edward Elric by his side conveniently punctuating his silent sentences with dramatic hand movements.

Evan's lips twisted in distaste as he eyed the Ishvalan major.

 _Traitor._

General Rourke seemed to brush their argument aside, saying something to Major Miles with an arrogant sweep of his arm. Miles hesitated, then reluctantly saluted.

Rourke gestured to Gabel, who handed him a megaphone from their vehicle. Xandria slid the window open an inch to hear his words.

" _If there's anyone in there, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Surrender now!_ "

Evan scoffed. "As if."

Xander glanced up uncertainly. "Should we respond?"

Xandria put a finger to her lips. "Just observe."

Rourke cocked his head and glanced at his watch. After what seemed like a long enough pause to him, he nodded crisply at Miles.

Even with Edward still obviously protesting, Miles signalled to his men, all three of them Briggs soldiers.

Evan tensed with anticipation as they approached their building in a tactical formation which was apparently familiar to them – two of them fanning out to the sides with their guns raised warily as Miles and the remaining soldier walked straight up to the front door.

"Xander…" voiced Evan warningly.

"I see them," returned Xander, voice taut. "Xandria?"

Xandria crossed her arms. "Do it."

Xander slid the business end of his trusty rifle through the small gap in the window, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

 _BANG!_ The sound of the gunshot was familiar music to Evan's ears.

The first soldier's right leg sprayed crimson, and he instantly collapsed to the ground with a pained yell. Major Miles was at his side in a flash, applying pressure to the wound as he shouted for his other men to retreat.

Alphonse Elric acted almost immediately, clapping and slapping his hands to the ground. A curved wall rose from the desert sand in a flash of electric blue as the Fullmetal Alchemist started yelling for the others to take cover.

"You missed," commented Evan carelessly as the empty cartridge clattered to the floor.

Xander, like any trained sniper, didn't raise his eyes from his scope. "I didn't. That was just a warning shot."

"You _are_ going soft."

"Shut up before I make you, my dear cousin."

Evan rolled his eyes. Xandria shot him another glare. "Evan, make yourself useful and transmute me a megaphone."

Evan sighed and leaned down to grasp the handle of Xander's portable radio, a prized possession which he carried around almost everywhere.

Xander, not taking his eyes off the desert ground, made a blind grab for it. "Hey! That's _my_ radio!"

"I'll transmute it back for you." said Evan flippantly.

He produced a stick of white chalk from his pocket and swiftly sketched a transmutation circle on the wooden floorboards, the powdery feel of chalk in his fingers a strangely comforting one. Evan placed the radio in the middle of the circle and slammed his palms to its circumference.

The circle flared once, and the glow instantly subsided to reveal a sleek silver megaphone.

Xandria snatched it off the floor, switched it on, and started bellowing through the window. "That was just our warning shot! Don't come any closer, or the next person is going home in a body bag with his head blown off!"

Evan cursed as he rubbed away his circle. Most of their view was now obscured by the defensive wall.

Xandria continued to make her threats. "And also, unless you haven't noticed, we also have an Amestrian hostage with us! So unless you want something to happen to _him_ –"

" _Amestris does not negotiate with terrorists._ "

Xandria stopped mid-rant at the sharp sound of General Rourke's distinctive voice.

" _I will give you ten seconds to surrender unconditionally._ "

Xander and Xandria exchanged glances. Xander raised an eyebrow. "That didn't work."

Rourke started counting down the seconds: " _Ten._ "

Distantly, Edward's voice could be heard even over the muted clamour of protests by Major Miles and two of Mustang's men. "What the hell are you up to this time, Rourke?"

Rourke ignored him. " _Nine._ "

Even Xandria looked unsure of how to act, but before she could make a decision, a white-haired man burst most unceremoniously into their room.

Evan swivelled. "Father?"

Dr. Leonardo Blake was not an easily flustered person, but right now, he was the absolute epitome of 'flustered'. His usually steady red eyes darted frantically around the room. "Have you seen Asther?"

" _Six._ "

"Asther?" Xandria's tone was incredulous. "I thought she was with you."

" _Five._ "

Blake shook his head, his fingernails almost seeming to claw desperately at the doorframe. "Roy Mustang is missing too."

" _What!?_ " barked Evan.

" _Three._ "

"Evan, come take a look at this," called Xander urgently, eye still pressed to his scope. "I think Rourke just signalled Major Gabel to do something."

Evan turned back to the window, squinting through the smudged glass. It was hard to tell from their current position and the recently transmuted barrier, but Evan immediately knew what he was looking at.

His eyes widened.

" _Two._ "

"Xander, disable him!" yelled Evan.

"Who?"

"The alchemist!"

"I can't! I don't have a clear shot!"

Apparently, the Fullmetal Alchemist had also caught on, because the situation below erupted into complete pandemonium. Evan could vaguely see signs of a scuffle as Rourke's bodyguards struggled to restrain an enraged Edward. "Gabel, what are you – Alphonse, STOP HIM!"

" _One._ "

Rourke waved a hand. Major Gabel knelt and pressed one palm to the large transmutation circle he had drawn in the sand.

The circle blazed to life even as Alphonse clapped his hands to destroy it.

" _No!_ "

"They're targeting this room! Everyone, OUT!" screamed Evan.

For once, no one questioned him.

Evan grabbed his father, flinging both of them out into the hallway even as the buzzing in his ears intensified into a deafening roar.

The building shuddered once, and the room's entire floor collapsed in a crackle and a crash as its foundations were ripped away from underneath it.

Cement shattered, and Evan braced himself for impact.

 _This was the horrifying power of alchemy._

* * *

A lion will always be superior to a dog.

It was an absolutely unquestionable fact.

 _You are the firstborn son of the Rourke family, my dearest Matthew. Always remember that you are destined for great things._

From birth, that was what Matthew Rourke had been told.

In Amestris, families with a long and permanent relationship with the military were the closest thing to outright aristocracy – rich, powerful, influential – they were the lions of the state.

He liked being a lion. The admiration and jealously which glittered in the eyes of his peers was like an ecstasy-inducing drug.

But sometimes, the fear was addictive as well. People were afraid of him – the weak avoided him and his entourage in the corridors; the strong saluted him in the military academy. Not one of them had dared to cross him.

Except…

 _Matthew stood rigidly in his father's office, hands pressed tightly to his thighs. His cheek was still smarting from the hard punch it'd taken a few days ago – the bruising was so awful he hesitated to take off the bandages._

" _I heard you got into a fight at the academy." His father – Lieutenant General Malcolm Rourke – was a dark silhouette seated at his desk, drumming his fingers on the mahogany surface._

Tap. Tap. Tap.

" _It was nothing serious. I handled it."_

" _Hmph." He didn't ask what the fight was about or what Matthew had done. All he asked was: "Who was it?"_

 _Matthew stiffened. "Two – two junior cadets."_

" _Names?"_

" _Not important."_

 _His father casually examined his impeccable fingernails. "I know you looked up names."_

 _Matthew licked dry lips. "Maes Hughes and Roy Mustang…sir."_

" _Never heard of them." Malcolm Rourke swivelled in his chair, hard grey stare landing on his only son. "But remember their names, Matthew."_

" _A dog who does not cower before a lion is still a threat to be observed."_

And how could he forget.

Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist. That name seemed to stalk his every footstep – through the countless newspapers, radio broadcasts, magazine tabloids – even after graduating from the military academy, and even after his father had pulled some strings and got him reassigned to his hometown of West City when the Ishval Civil War broke out.

It would be several years after when they would once again cross paths – Mustang, a colonel attending an official meeting at Central Command, and Rourke, a recently promoted brigadier general in Central for the same reason.

For a split second, it seemed like nothing had changed. Rourke had recognized that dark hair and even darker eyes almost immediately, and Mustang had snapped into a cordial salute just as fast.

The dog and the lion.

But as Rourke flicked his eyes towards his face, he saw something else – something that wasn't there before the war.

What was it? A fire – he would say. Of ambition, and the cold determination required to achieve it.

The look of a lion.

Rourke averted his eyes and kept walking.

 _His father tossed his general's peaked cap onto their polished dining table with just enough force to hint at his barely repressed anger._

 _Matthew ordered their servants to retrieve their bags from the car. They had just returned to West City from the big meeting up at Central, and his father's gloomy disposition was infectious. "Father –"_

" _That damned old fool Grumman." General Malcolm Rourke cursed as he sat down at the head of their long dining table. "That smug look on his face…it drives me up the wall. He thinks that just because he has the great 'Flame Alchemist' under his command he can act all pompous and…big-headed."_

" _He's still holed up in East City after all these years." offered Matthew hesitantly. "He has no power in Central."_

 _His father snorted. "He has enough."_

" _The Flame Alchemist?" A trilling female voice sounded from the staircase._

 _Matthew looked up as his younger sister Edith trod daintily down the steps, a satin dress hugging her sensually curved figure as she fanned herself with a glossy magazine._

 _Her full red lips curled into a wide smile, but her silver eyes remained cold as ice. "Funny that you should be talking about him. He just made Trend magazine's 'Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors in Amestris'."_

 _Before Matthew could think of an adequate response, Edith flipped open the magazine to a pre-bookmarked page and started reading aloud from it: "Graduated from the military academy and obtained his State Alchemist certification at twenty. Returned from the Ishval Civil War as the Hero of Ishval and was promoted to lieutenant colonel at twenty-three. Promoted to colonel just two years later at twenty-five." She raised both eyebrows in mock awe. "My my, brother dearest, his track record could be better than yours."_

 _Matthew bared his teeth in a condescending sneer. "I'm still a brigadier general."_

" _Oh, brother." Edith shook her head pitifully. "You've never had any lasting achievements, never have been hailed a war hero – hell, you have never even_ been _to war. Can you honestly say that without father's help you would have gotten to where you are now?"_

 _She leaned in closer, wolfish smile widening. "_ Everything _you own, brother, doesn't belong to you, but to the Rourke family."_

 _Matthew snapped out his arm, slamming his fist into the wall right next to Edith's head. "You_ will _shut up now, Edith. Girls should only speak when they're spoken to."_

 _Edith didn't even blink. "A tip, brother, girls also don't like aggressive men very much. Isn't that right, father?" She called cheerfully over his shoulder._

 _Matthew clenched his fists, trying to control his boiling rage._ " _Father –"_

" _I will only say one thing to you, Matthew." Malcolm Rourke stood, chair screeching against the marble tiles. "Lions usually run faster and stronger than mere dogs. But, it is not completely impossible for a particularly fast dog to catch up at times – do you know what happens then, Matthew?"_

 _Matthew didn't answer._

" _Well, you'll get bitten, of course. Always keep that in mind, my son."_

He couldn't accept it.

How could that half-foreign, nobody, low-born dog of the military be _better_ than him?

Unacceptable. Unthinkable.

 _Barely a few weeks after what some military personnel referred to as 'The Promised Day', Brigadier General Matthew Rourke found himself reassigned to Central due to the sudden and drastic shortage in high ranking military officers. Officially, his father and himself were never part of Bradley's inner circle, a fact which ended up being an advantage to them rather than a disadvantage._

 _Rumours and speculations regarding the exact occurrences on that fateful day were spreading like wildfire through the corridors of the now-decimated Central Command, and those who had fought in the battle were hailed as heroes._

 _There was one thing Rourke knew for certain though – Roy Mustang had emerged from the battlefield blinded and effectively handicapped._

 _He was also about to launch his plans to restore Ishval._

" _The other generals don't like the idea, and frankly, neither do I," explained his father that night. "The Fuhrer seems to want Colonel Mustang to be entirely in charge of the program, which hardly seems like a good decision considering his…disability. In the end, we managed to meet some sort of consensus, with Fuhrer Grumman agreeing to send another military officer of our choice to – I think his exact words were 'provide assistance'."_

 _Matthew cocked his head. "I'll go."_

 _His father raised a single eyebrow at him. "Are you sure?"_

" _Of course. I've never fought in Ishval before, so they'll probably trust me more than they'll trust him. If I play my cards right, the Rourke family may even gain complete control over Ishval." Matthew grinned toothily as he lounged in his armchair. "It's not much, but it's a start."_

And if Matthew finally got the chance to humiliate him, then all the better.

 _His father smiled coldly. "Then I'm counting on you, son."_

But now the situation had changed.

Rourke stood on the great golden sands of Ishval, the shine of his polished military shoes dulled to a greyish tint by the billowing dust and debris in the air.

The dust cloud cleared, and spread out before him was his magnificent handiwork – well, Major Gabel's handiwork if you wanted to be technical about it. Part of the two-story structure looked like it had spontaneously collapsed in on itself, completely demolishing at least three rooms and whichever poor soul who just happened to be occupying them.

He couldn't help it. His lips curved into a small smile.

If Rourke successfully eradicated a terrorist group, obliterated the chances of _his_ precious Ishvalan Restoration Program of ever seeing the light of day, _and_ got rid of the pesky thorn in his side –

Well, who ever said you couldn't kill three birds with one stone?

Gabel was at his side, white-faced and pale. "Sir, don't you think this was a little too extensive?"

Rourke smirked. _Ah Gabel, still so soft-hearted._

He knew that the Shatter Alchemist could give him a much grander performance than this if he wanted to. It was part of the reason why the general kept him around. "Don't you worry about that, major."

His ears were still filled with white noise, which gradually faded out to the chaotic sounds of shouting and fighting.

Gabel gasped. "Sir!"

Rourke turned just in time to see Edward Elric break free of his men and lunge towards him.

He caught a glimpse of furious golden eyes and the flash of a blonde braid before the fist connected sharply with his jawbone.

Rourke pitched backwards after suffering the second punch-to-the-face of his life, Edward on top of him.

They both hit the sand.

"You _fucking_ bastard!"

* * *

The last thing she remembered was the sky falling down.

It was dark, so dark.

Soundless save for the incessant sound of static in her ears.

Blinded and deafened.

Something warm and wet splashed onto her cheek and dribbled slowly down her neck.

"Asther?"

The voice drifted down from somewhere far, far away. She felt like she was lying at the bottom of a dark well, submerged underwater as she stared up at a distant circle of light.

"Asther? _Asther!_ "

Asther's eyes flickered open.

Her blurred vision slowly refocused on her surroundings. Broken slabs of concrete…shattered glass…tangled meshes of rusted metal wires and rods sticking out of the cracked walls – the skeletal remains of what was once the building's reinforced concrete.

And the blue, blue sky – impossibly bright and clear.

Asther blinked. Half of the ceiling was gone, and what was left of it was slowly crumbling and falling to pieces.

Her face was wet. She reached out a hand to touch it, and her fingers came away dark red with blood.

 _Blood._

Asther felt her breath catch and her throat tighten.

Her brother always said that she was lucky that she was too young to remember the worst of the war. But she remembered. Sherememberedsherememberedsheremembered.

Blood and loud noises and screaming and fire. The explosions rang in her ears and pounded against the inside of her cranium.

 _NononoIdon'twanttogobackthereIdon'twantto_

Asther covered her ears and screamed.

 _I'mscaredIwanttogohomeI'mscared!_

"Asther? Asther, it's okay. It's alright." It was that voice again, cutting through the terrible noises in her head. "I'm here, okay?"

She grabbed onto it – that voice – like a lifeline in a tumultuous sea, hanging on for dear life as it reeled her back to the safety of dry land.

Asther's breathing steadied. The sounds in her head faded away to nothing. "Mister…Roy?"

"Asther, thank god." The Flame Alchemist was crouched over her, his hands pressed to the ground by her sides. He heaved a sigh of relief, then winced. "Asther, I want you to answer my questions very carefully."

Asther nodded, caught herself, and squeaked out: "Okay."

"First, are you hurt?"

"I…don't think so. My ankle sort of aches but I feel okay."

"Good. I need you to be my eyes here, Asther. Can you describe our situation to me?"

Asther strained to turn her head. "It's bright and – I think part of the roof, or maybe the wall – fell on us. It's – It's –" Her little heartbeat quickened as her attention was drawn back to him when something splattered on her exposed cheek, making her flinch.

A sizable chunk of the wall had collapsed on top of them, and his body was the only thing keeping the both of them from being completely crushed underneath it.

She blinked again, staring up at his shadowed face, her eyes slowly drifting down to his upper torso.

A twisted metal rod protruding from the concrete had gone clean through his right shoulder, its grooved surface slick with fresh blood.

"You're bleeding!"

"Oh, this?" Roy smiled tightly. "I'll be fine. Do you think you can get out?"

Asther swallowed the lump of fear in her throat as she tried to wriggle free. "I – I can't. My leg is stuck."

Roy cursed once, both viciously and briefly, before wincing again.

"Mr. Roy? I'm…I'm scared." Asther whimpered softly.

"It'll be okay, I promise." The loud scrape of stone on metal cut through the air as another section of the ceiling gave way, crashing to the ground barely a few feet away from them.

The fear intensified, and Asther whimpered even louder.

"Asther, do you trust me?"

Asther tore her eyes away from the ground to gaze up at the face hovering above her.

"Yes."

"Then I need you to do exactly as I tell you to." Roy shifted, and the strain in his arms was apparent as the weight of the concrete continued to press down on him. "Take a deep breath, steady yourself, and scream for help as loud as you can. Do you think you can do that?"

Asther bit her lip. _Be brave, Asther, be brave._ "I can – I can try."

Asther shut her eyes, trying to calm her pounding heart. Her throat felt coarse and dry, and she wasn't even sure if she could produce a sound louder than a squeak.

But she could try.

Asther inhaled deeply, lips parting.

And screamed.

* * *

It was difficult to gauge exactly how much time had passed or how much blood he had lost, but judging by the way his senses were beginning to blur and dampen –

Roy was going to go with 'quite a lot'.

"Help! We're under here! Help!" Asther's voice broke, and she coughed hoarsely.

"Take a breather. I'm sure someone would have heard you by now." Roy huffed, cursing both his spectacularly bad luck and his inability to use alchemy considering that he couldn't move his hands.

Asther coughed again and fell silent. "Does it…does it hurt?"

"You mean my shoulder?" Yeah. It felt like it was on fire and was causing him more grief than the receiving end of one of Lust's razor sharp spears. "Only a little."

Asther sniffled. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for." said Roy gravely, and he meant every word.

" _Asther?_ Asther, where are you?"

Asther started at the familiar voice. "Cousin Xandria! We're over here!"

There was a clatter of unsteady footsteps and the voice grew closer. " _We?_ "

There was a surprised pause and Asther wailed, sounding like she was close to tears: "Big-Sister-Xandria!"

Roy forced a smile. "Hello there. If you wouldn't mind getting us out of here?"

"Christ – Bloody hell –" The relief in Xandria's voice was overwhelmingly apparent, but she stopped herself before the emotions could overtake her. " _Evan!_ Evan, I found her!"

There was another pattering of urgent footsteps and Evan's voice emerged: "Where?"

"Under here. But this slab is too big to move even for the both of us."

"Stand back." Evan stomped towards their position, the young man currently seeming to consist half of pure rage and half of pure anxiety. "I'll handle this."

Roy was just wondering what exactly constituted 'I'll handle this' when he heard a strangely familiar scratching sound and then a crackle and pop of energy.

The weight bearing down on his back seemed to magically disintegrate, crumbling into a thousand harmless little bits.

 _Alchemy?_

Roy groaned and collapsed to the side, clutching his shoulder. Whatever had gone through it was still firmly embedded in his flesh.

The sounds around him blurred and expanded out of focus. Asther was sobbing as Xandria soothed her with quiet words. "Evan, go get Uncle Blake and Xander from downstairs. I think she needs medical attention."

Evan grunted once and left.

Roy clapped his hands and used his alchemy to shear off part of the metal rod which was sticking out from the back of his shoulder. It clattered to the ground.

He then painfully positioned himself against a section of the still-intact wall and gripped the front end of the rod. Allowing himself a moment to breathe, he reflected on his limited but sufficient medical knowledge – he couldn't leave it in because it would increase his chances of sepsis, but if he pulled it out he could potentially bleed out unless he somehow closed the wound.

 _Cauterization?_ He winced at the mere thought of it. _Or maybe I should take a page out of May Chang's book and try out some Eastern Alkahestry of my own._

Clenching his jaw, Roy decided he might as well get it over with.

Mentally bracing himself, he pulled.

The rough, grooved surface of the rod grated and tugged against raw tissue and bone. His nerves screamed in agony, and he let go, gasping at the effort.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, only to discover that it was slick with blood. _Don't you_ dare _pass out._

He couldn't remember the moment when more people entered the room, the conversations and the teary reunions. All he remembered was Asther's voice, damp and choked with tears. "Please Papa, he saved me. You have to help him."

Slow footsteps approached him, and he heard a rustle of clothing as someone crouched down in front of him.

His consciousness was already grasping at straws, and Roy leaned his head back against the wall in exhaustion as Dr. Leonardo Blake spoke: "You know you could bleed out if I remove this, right?"

Roy smiled humourlessly. "But I could get an infection if you didn't."

"That is also true."

He flinched involuntarily as he felt firm hands clutch the rod, one of them pressing against his shoulder. "I don't have painkillers, so this is going to hurt."

Roy gritted his teeth. "Tell me about it."

Like any doctor who was good at his job, Dr. Blake gave no warning at all.

The ache in his shoulder erupted into a full blown inferno as every last nerve ending in his body seemed to spontaneously self-combust.

Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard himself scream.

The anguish dulled, and he doubled over, hitting the ground.

The world crumbled away at his feet, and for the second time that week, total darkness descended.

* * *

 _This wasn't how it was supposed to be._

Major Thomas Gabel looked on in utmost horror as Major Miles and his men had to disentangle an infuriated Edward Elric from his superior officer. The golden-eyed teenager fought like a demon fresh out of hell, screaming the most vulgar profanities and blasphemies Gabel had ever heard at both General Rourke and his reluctant restrainers.

 _The day he'd finally obtained his State Alchemist qualification was the best day of his life._

Gabel's mind had been filled with visions of the future – dreams of being able to help the people of his country, to serve and to fight for something he truly believed in. He admired those who had come before him – Fullmetal and Flame, Strong Arm and Ice. His friends and family may jeer that State Alchemists were merely dogs at the Fuhrer's direct disposal – living, breathing weapons under the military's paycheque – but he vowed that he would prove them wrong.

 _He believed, and now others would pay the price for it._

Rourke wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth. "Why, you little brat –"

Edward had finally managed to calm down somewhat, but the murderous look in his eyes had in no way subsided. "Go to hell."

Major Miles had Ed's right arm firmly pinned to his side, and knowing the latter's infamous temper, wasn't about to let go anytime soon. "General Rourke, your actions today were out of line."

"I think I handled the situation perfectly well and according to military regulations," responded Rourke primly. "If we allow these terrorists to step all over us by being nice to them, their actions will simply become bolder and more dangerous. Let me remind you, major, that we are here to stop terrorism, not encourage it."

Edward growled. "And let me guess – committing bloody murder is just all part of your precious 'military regulations'?"

Rourke met his molten gaze without flinching. "Every military officer knew the risks when he or she decided to don the Amestrian military colours. For the greater good, sacrifices must be made."

"There were _people_ inside that building and you call that a frickin' _sacrifice?_ " Edward clenched his fists. "You know nothing. Nothing about what sacrifice _really_ means."

Gabel's eyes darted from Edward's angry expression to Alphonse's devastated one. The younger Elric simply stood to one side, as silent and still as a statue, not even bothering to chastise his brother's rash actions.

And for some reason, his silence cut Gabel even deeper than the worst of Edward's curses.

Ed snarled dangerously. "Miles, _please_ let me go so I can beat that bastard up real nice."

Miles's face was pained. "You know I can't do that, Edward."

"I won't forget this, Edward Elric." Rourke fingered the fresh bruise on the side of his face. "Once I get back to Central, you're about to face some serious repercussions."

"I'm not part of the military anymore so _like hell I care!_ "

" _Enough!_ "

Everyone, even Rourke, fell silent at the blunt command.

Gabel whirled – everyone had been so distracted that none of them had heard one of their jeeps pull up on the sand.

Lieutenant Hawkeye strode towards them, her hands tucked neatly behind her back as her sharp honey-coloured eyes assessed the situation.

Falman stoically approached her and whispered something in her ear.

Hawkeye nodded, her expression vacant. She marched right up to General Rourke, but this time, she did not salute him. "General, I regret that I have to ask you to leave immediately."

Rourke simply smirked in amusement. "On whose authority?"

Hawkeye extended her hand, showing Rourke the signet ring resting in the middle of her palm. "The Fuhrer's."

Gabel bit his lip to muffle his gasp. Rourke narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"As of an hour ago, Fuhrer Grumman has been formally briefed on the situation. I have been granted full and unconditional authority as his representative." Hawkeye curled her fingers around the ring. "You are needed in Central, sir."

Rourke's suspicious gaze didn't waver. "You're lying."

"You can contact the Fuhrer directly to verify my claims," replied Hawkeye plainly. "Major Miles, perhaps you could escort General Rourke back to Sersa? Your soldier requires medical attention, so he needs to be taken to a hospital as well."

Miles moved as if to protest, but Hawkeye stopped him with a hard look. "Take care of your men first, Major Miles."

Miles's eyebrows furrowed in hesitation, but he relented. "Alright. I'll make sure that both my subordinate as well as the general and his associates are on the first train out of Sersa tomorrow morning."

"And Scar, would you mind guiding them out of the desert?"

Scar nodded once, crossing his tattooed arms in a mildly menacing manner.

Rourke seemed to be hesitant as well, but at the sight of the rest of the uninjured Briggs soldiers bearing down on him in a slightly passive-aggressive manner, snorted indignantly. "I _will_ be verifying this, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Hawkeye was already turning away to address the others. "Please, do."

Rourke swivelled, his personal bodyguards already close on his heels. "Major Gabel."

"Oh, yes…sir." Gabel mumbled.

His feet heavy, Gabel dragged them towards the waiting car.

He passed the Elric brothers, who had both fallen strangely silent.

Gabel put his right knuckle to his mouth. _I have to…_

"Edward?" He stopped and turned.

The Fullmetal Alchemist didn't look at him.

Gabel swallowed thickly. "Edward, I'm sorry. I didn't want to –"

The corners of Ed's mouth quirked up in a darkly humourless smile. "But you did it anyway."

Gabel let his eyes drop to the ground. "I didn't have a choice."

"Oh really?" Edward tossed his head back and laughed – a sharp, empty sound. "I know that we're called the dogs of the military, but just because your owner told you to bite doesn't mean you actually _should_."

Gabel didn't answer. He couldn't.

Ed shook his head in disgust and turned around, his back now facing Gabel. "It's people like you who blindly follow orders that are the actual dogs."

Gabel clenched his fists. "And what would _you_ know about that!?"

Edward stiffened.

Gabel knew that he didn't have the right to be yelling at Edward, but years' worth of frustration and anger boiled to the surface – a hot pot on the stove ready to blow its own lid. "You know what they say about you at Central? ' _That Fullmetal brat_ ' they call you, ' _always causing problems for the military_ ' – but do you know how much I _envy_ you for that? Because no matter how much they grumble and complain, they can't do a thing to you!"

Even with Gabel shouting at his back, Edward didn't turn around.

Gabel barrelled onwards, not pausing to catch his breath. "Colonel Mustang cleans up your messes perfectly, and even Fuhrer Bradley seems to back your every reckless decision. You were given something no other State Alchemist has – the freedom of _choice,_ the freedom to do things your own way. And it pisses me off that you take that all for granted! If you'd just been under another commanding officer, if you hadn't had the goddamn good fortune of having someone who actually _puts up_ with you –"

"You think I don't know that!?"

Gabel stopped in mid-sentence, his breaths laboured and heavy.

Ed turned his head, fixing those ethereal golden eyes on him. But they were no longer filled with burning anger – they were no longer filled with anything at all.

Gabel stared into the cold, empty darkness behind those once glimmering eyes and felt his heart drop to his feet.

"You think…I don't know that?" Edward repeated dully.

Alphonse took his hand, and Ed looked up at his younger brother's pleading gaze. "Brother…"

Edward shook his head. "I'm just…disappointed in you, Major Gabel."

And with that, he left. Turned around, walked away, and never looked back.

Gabel closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

Those words…

They _hurt_.

* * *

It didn't take long for Edward Elric to make up his mind.

" – I think the building used to be some kind of storage facility. It would explain why it's so isolated from all the other towns."

"Does that really matter?"

Edward leaned against the door of the jeep, listening to the sounds of heated discussion within.

"Ahem, we did a quick reconnaissance around the perimeter and made a note of all the visible windows and doors. It seems like there used to be a back door behind the building which opened up into a small courtyard, but it was destroyed in the explosion. Front entrance is still intact."

"So what should we do now?"

A long beat of silence.

"Do you think –"

"No. Something as stupid as that is _not_ enough to kill the colonel."

"But everything's been silent for an hour now…"

"Maybe they're just keeping their heads down."

"It's a good a time as any to storm the place."

"We still aren't sure about how many people are in there, if they're armed, and how many are injured. It's too risky."

"Well we can't just _sit_ here either."

"We already have patrols set up watching for any movement or signs of either an assault or an escape."

"Hawkeye, what do you think?"

Edward felt his body tense at her name.

For a moment, she didn't answer.

"I was thinking I should go in there alone."

Edward slid the door open with a teeth-shattering _BANG!_

All the members of Team Mustang simultaneously started and turned to stare at him.

"No you're not." Clutching the sides of the open car door, Edward leaned into the vehicle, golden eyes dead serious.

"Because whether you like it or not, I'm going in."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 _ **While Rourke was having his little family drama up in the West, meanwhile, in East City, Colonel Mustang nonchalantly ripped out the 'Top Ten Most Eligible Bachelors in Amestris' page from his own copy of Trend magazine, folded it, and stored it carefully in his desk drawer with a characteristically smug smile on his face.**_

 _ **Only to find it vandalized with a marker-drawn mustache and goofy glasses the next day, right after Edward Elric was seen leaving his personal office in a suspicious manner (which basically means that Edward was giggling hysterically like a madman).**_

 _ **It appeared that Edward had left more than just his messily-scrawled report on Mustang's desk that day.**_

 **(I'm sorry...I tried but I really couldn't resist...)**


	14. Chapter 13 - Proposal

**Author's Note:**

 **No, it's not _that_ kind of proposal.**

 **So a quick note that the next chapter will be up in two weeks instead of one. That chapter will be the final one in this 'Act' (so to speak), and it's really causing me a lot of pain and headache so I need more time to work on it.**

 **Quality over speed, right?**

 **Over my hiatus I've done some planning and decided to make this a 20 chapter story, which means I'm now almost at the end but not quite...? Well, I sincerely hope that everyone who's been taking their time out to read this will stick with me to the end.  
**

 **Once again, a big thank you to all of you! And kindly review/follow/favourite if you enjoy my work!**

 **Disclaimer: *sigh* I do not own FMA or any of its characters.**

 **Reply to Guest: Glad to be back! Yeah, that was a little long...but I blame that entire month I had to steam over this - it ended up with a lot of extra scenes. Thank you for the review!**

 **Reply to dvltgr: Thank you! I hope I don't disappoint. :)**

* * *

 _Chapter 13 – Proposal_

 _Fear._

A physiological reaction arising from the perception of danger leading to the confrontation with or escape from a perceived threat. This is also known as the fight-or-flight response.

 _His heart thumped in time to his pounding footsteps, bare feet slapping painfully against the grating sand._

In humans and animals, fear is modulated by the process of cognition and learning. These acquired sets of reactions or responses are not easily forgotten. The animal that survives is the animal that already knows what to fear and how to avoid this threat.

 _The crying bundle in his arms seemed to weigh down his every step like a box of lead. His muscles burned as if they were on fire. But the boy didn't dare stop – no matter how badly he wanted to lie down on the rough ground and rest, he was afraid that once he closed his eyes, he may never wake up._

An inborn response for coping with danger, fear accelerates the breathing rate, heart rate, increases muscle tension and blood glucose, as well as causes the constriction of the peripheral blood vessels.

 _He nearly burst into tears when he caught a glimpse of glittering lights in the distance._ The town! _The town! He wasn't sure how, but he –_ they _– finally made it out of the desert, out of that hell. His little sister continued to wail as her head bobbed up and down on his shoulder, too young to keep up with this merciless pace, but old enough to understand the unpleasant feeling of being hunted. He rubbed the filthy rags on her back and gasped in her ear: "Shh, shh. We're nearly there. Nearly there…"_

Fear. It was a terrible, dreadful sensation, but also a vital response which enabled us to protect ourselves from harm. It serves survival by generating appropriate behavioural responses, and hence has been preserved through evolution.

 _The Ishvalans in the last still-intact settlement he hid in had told him about the kind Amestrian woman who smuggled Ishvalan refugees out of the country. She lived in a small town close to the border of the desert – a town called Sersa, two days' journey on foot._ Don't stop. _They told him._ Don't stop or the military and their alchemists will catch you.

Another interesting fact about fear: while the emotion could bring about certain biological reactions in the body which enabled a person to run faster, endure longer, and be alert for extended periods of time, fear could not last long. Once safe haven was reached, exhaustion and hunger would drive the terror away, and a cool, heavenly feeling would douse your fire-filled veins – relief.

 _When the woman found the young boy at her backdoor, nearly bent double with rasping breaths and half-collapsed on her doorstep, true to the word of the other Ishvalans, she invited him into her home and gave him and his sister food and water. Neither child had smelled, much less_ seen _, a full meal in nearly a month, and even the stale bread and strange-tasting water could have been ambrosia to his ravenous stomach._

Sometimes, your guard went down far too easily, and you would trust the first kind soul willing to take your hands, wipe away your tears, and tell you there was nothing left to fear.

 _The boy smiled up at the Amestrian who had taken him in as he continued to feed torn-off pieces of tough bread to the toddler in his lap. "Thank you."_

 _The woman smiled. "You're most welcome. The others are in the basement. You're lucky, they'll be leaving tomorrow."_

 _He blinked as everything suddenly swam out of focus. The boy shook his head, wondering if he was just too tired – he hadn't had a good night's sleep since his home had burned to the ground. "Leaving? Leaving where?"_

 _"To somewhere better, child." The friendly smile on her face widened and morphed into something…more sinister. "I'm not sure if they were looking for children, but survivors from Ishval are so rare now…"_

But the harsh reality is – trust is overrated.

 _The boy gasped once as the darkness clawed at the edges of his vision, and he toppled off his chair, head hitting the table. Somewhere in the distance, a child was crying._

 _Asther…Asther…_

Never let your guard down.

~.~

 _ **Central City, Amestris**_

 _ **The Ishvalan War of Extermination, 1908**_

It was hard to judge time in this dim and death-permeated place.

The Ishvalan boy pressed his forehead to the cool bars of his narrow cell and whimpered.

The pitiful sound was quickly suppressed however, and was instead disguised as a low growl. He narrowed his eyes and glared bravely at the man stationed right outside their cell.

The guard barely gave the child a second glance, the colour of his military uniform – a brilliant, royal blue – almost blinding in this monochromatic space.

He still remembered waking up on the cold floor of a moving truck, surrounded by a circle of dirty faces. Red eyes stared at him from each one of those faces, some sympathetic, some wretched, some fearful. There were many women, some elderly, but most of them were injured Ishvalan men who had fought on the front lines and paid dearly for it.

He jolted awake, the shackles around his wrists rattling with his panic. "Asther, where's Asther!?"

"Shh…Are you looking for this young child?" An Ishvalan woman sitting next to the wall showed him the small form cradled in her chained arms, fast asleep.

He relaxed, but not by much. "Where…where are they taking us?"

The boy would later learn that the Amestrian woman in Sersa was merely the front for a much more ominous business. The military had intentionally spread rumours about her alleged 'activities' of helping Ishvalan survivors, setting her up as a phony 'escape route' in hopes of luring the desperate there. Survivors who were brave and strong enough to make the hopeful journey would only find despair and capture awaiting them at the end.

He rode in the truck for a very long time, with none of those imprisoned with him having any idea of their eventual destination. They would find out soon enough though, as the vehicle finally stopped and they were unceremoniously shoved and threatened into their new home.

The building was large and squat and white, with countless cells built into the bare stone walls, every one of them fitted with reinforced metal bars and locks.

It was a prison, but a prison for what?

"It's a death camp." One of the older prisoners from the cell adjoining theirs informed them. "Amestris never lets anything go to waste, _especially_ human lives. They experiment on us here – dark, demonic experiments which should never see the light of day."

The boy didn't want to believe him – _couldn't_ believe him. But the next day, the aged man was taken out of his cell.

He never came back. None of them did.

And the boy knew that someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, he would be next.

 _Fear. Fear. Fear._ It gnawed at his insides and tore at his mind. But what good was fear when you had no way of running from what you were so afraid of?

The guards outside their cells called this place the Fifth Laboratory, a name which would be forever imprinted in the boy's memory.

A week, or perhaps two after he had been held captive here, the boy and the rest of his cellmates were removed from their prison and forced single-file into a spacious room in the middle of the facility.

The boy swallowed, his keen eyes immediately drawn first towards the milling occupants of the room – not dressed in military uniform, but rather adorned in the snow white lab coats of scientists, then towards the large and eerie-looking design etched into the ground.

It was a strange symbol bordered by a perfect circle, the symbol consisting of two pentagons, one inlaid within the other, with a single cylindrical stone pillar standing erect at its very centre. For the young boy, his first glimpse of a transmutation circle was both marvellous and strangely disquieting.

One of the men – an Ishvalan soldier who had lost an arm in the war – suddenly broke free from their line and lunged wildly at their captors.

There were screams and shouts as he tackled one of the guards before the other one drew his gun and shot him.

The boy couldn't help it. He screamed as the dead body hit the ground, a bloody bullet-hole punched through the back of his head.

"Tch, tch. These prisoners could be dangerous. You should get the personnel here to be more careful, Dr. Marcoh." commented one of the scientists, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he scribbled something on a paper chart.

Dr. Marcoh was an elderly man of average height with a prominent streak of white running through his once dark hair. As the soldiers dragged the corpse out of the room, leaving a thick trail of crimson along the sand-coloured ground, he shot an uneasy glance towards them before averting his eyes. "Let's just get on with this."

The boy drew his sister a little closer to his body, even though this thin and frail frame of bones and brown skin could do nothing to protect her from harm. For once, she wasn't crying, as if even she could sense the immediacy of their deaths.

One by one, they were dragged away and dumped on what seemed to be specific points on the circle under the scientists' direction. Some went quietly, hidden horror shining in their eyes; those who resisted were either shot in the knees or right through the temple.

A rough hand grabbed his arm, and the boy recoiled instinctively.

"Come on." The soldier said gruffly, tugging him towards the furthermost point on the outer pentagon, where another Ishvalan was already lying limply. "It will all be over soon."

All the boy knew was that he was _not_ touching that circle.

"A _child!_ What is a child doing here?"

Both the boy and his captor swivelled to find the salt-and-pepper-haired doctor bearing down on them, a rare expression of pure rage marring his gentle face.

"What does it matter, Dr. Marcoh?" Another one of the researchers looked up from his notes. "We have never used children before. If anything, this attempt could yield some interesting results."

Dr. Marcoh clenched his jaw, staring down at the boy with grief and guilt in his dark eyes.

Then those eyes hardened, and he turned to fix a cold glare on the researcher who had spoken. "That is _exactly_ what I'm worried about! Are you an amateur? You don't just throw unforeseen variables around in an experiment and expect it to work out just fine. I will need to review the design of the circle and several other factors if we are to do this. For now, the children stay where they are."

The researcher raised both hands in mock surrender. "I understand, _doctor._ "

Dr. Marcoh seemed to square his shoulders. "We have enough of them. Let's begin."

 _Begin? Begin what?_ The boy chewed his lip anxiously as he observed from the sidelines, the hand clamped firmly down on his shoulder preventing him from turning away.

The rest of the scientists bustled around, making final adjustments and preparations as Dr. Marcoh stood directly in front of the circle, hands folded neatly behind his back – clearly the person in charge of this place.

From the boy's vantage point, he could see that those calloused hands were shaking.

 _A doctor…just like his father. But weren't doctors supposed to save lives? Was this supposed to save them?_

For a moment, all was silent.

The seconds marched past, enormous. The boy held his breath as a strange thrumming seemed to vibrate through his bones.

No, he wasn't imagining it. The boy stared down at his bare feet, astonished as bursts of energy pulsed underground, strong enough to be felt.

The circle exploded in a crackle of pure blue light.

And then the screaming began.

The boy watched the terrible scene unfold before his eyes, horrified and yet completely transfixed. The men and women in the circle screamed and writhed on the ground in pure agony, limbs bending and stretching at unnatural angles, as if their very souls were being ripped from their bodies.

The light intensified, turning a bloody shade of scarlet red. It swirled towards the centre of the transmutation circle, congregating and solidifying into a single physical object.

The room dimmed and the screams ceased as abruptly as they began.

Every last Ishvalan who had been in the circle instantly slumped over, crimson eyes wide and unseeing, breaths frozen in their throats.

 _Death, dying, dead._

The boy felt himself trembling as Dr. Marcoh strode towards the centre of the circle.

He reached out a hand towards the top of the stone pillar and lifted a stone-shaped object from its surface.

It was bright red. Red as blood.

~.~

He started awake from a world of dreams filled with red stones and black death at the rattle of a lock.

The boy reflexively shrunk against the wall when he caught sight of a dark figure looming at his cell door. The cell, once full, was now empty save for him and his sleeping sister.

Everyone else was dead.

The thought made his throat go dry.

The figure was wearing a hood, and it lifted it now to reveal a face marked by the deep wrinkles of age and pain. "Come now, child. And hurry."

He didn't hesitate. He sprung to his feet, surprisingly nimble for a malnourished Ishvalan boy, and ducked quickly out of his prison.

The corridor was dark and deserted, which made him wonder what Dr. Marcoh had to do to get rid of the guards who usually patrolled this area. The doctor led him by the hand down an intricate maze of countless hallways, finally slowing as they arrived at a different section of the Laboratory, the dark walls illuminated only by the pale halogen lamps.

Dr. Marcoh pointed upwards, drawing his attention to the rectangular shape of an air-vent just above their heads. "You can escape through there. I'll give you a leg up."

Very carefully, Dr. Marcoh lifted both him and the toddler he was carrying on his shoulders, and the boy silently removed the cover from the vent, first pushing his sister into the narrow space before climbing in himself.

She whimpered once, startled awake from slumber. He shushed her gently, cradling her close to his chest.

"This vent will lead to the back of the building," explained Dr. Marcoh, his voice low and urgent. "There is a high wall topped with barbed wire enclosing the entire area, but you can easily slip out through a small opening hidden by wooden boards at the far right of the back courtyard. Once you're out on the streets, start running, and don't look back until you're far, far away."

"Doctor," he licked suddenly dry lips. "What was – Back there…what was that?"

The guilt and regret in Dr. Marcoh's eyes was unmistakable even in the dim light. "That was alchemy. Alchemy which no man or demon should ever have touched, much less utilize. Forget what you have seen here, child. Forget it all."

The boy nodded stiffly and repositioned the cover of the air vent over the space it once occupied.

When he looked back down, Dr. Marcoh was already gone.

The boy would never know that he was the first, and only, Ishvalan to have ever survived and escape the experiments at the Fifth Laboratory.

And despite the doctor's advice to forget it all, the memories of his experience there seemed to be forever seared into his subconscious. It haunted both his waking hours and his dreams – every time he closed his eyes, he would see that transmutation circle over and over again, as well as the blood red stone at its centre.

He would sometimes sketch that exact circle on his hands, on a scrap of paper, on a greasy piece of cloth. As if drawing it would expel the dangerous thoughts from his mind.

Until one day, he understood.

It had never quite occurred to him up till then what a powerful tool alchemy was – an art which could send an entire town up in flames at a snap of the fingers; which could tear apart people's souls and bodies at a flick of the hands.

 _Alchemy._

Since the war began, it seemed like he was always running scared.

But now he was tired of it. Now, he wanted to _fight._

And if alchemy could give him the power to protect the ones he loved, if it could erase his fears and enable him to stand tall and proud against the Amestrians he so desperately hated –

Then to hell with Ishvala.

To hell with everything.

~.~

 _ **East City, Amestris**_

 _ **1913**_

"Evan! Have you seen my tie?"

Evan Blake looked up from where he had been sprawled on the couch, perusing a model car catalogue. He dipped one hand into the gap in between the stained pillows, tugging out a horrifically purple piece of fabric. "Is this the one you're looking for?" He hollered over his shoulder, the tie dangling in between his fingers.

"No, not that one! I want the blue one with the yellow cartoon bear. I'm taking over a shift at the paediatric ward today." Dr. Leonardo Blake's head popped out from behind the bathroom door, a comb tangled in his white hair.

"Does it really matter?" drawled Evan lazily, returning to his catalogue. "Those kids won't know the difference anyway."

"Papa, is this your tie?" called Asther as she bounced cheerfully into their living room, a rag doll in one hand and an ugly cerulean tie in the other.

"Ah, Asther dear, you're such a smart girl." Blake picked his daughter up in his arms and spun her around, Asther giggling wildly. He set her back down on her feet, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her head. "Papa's off to work now."

Quickly wearing and adjusting his tie, Blake plucked a brown fedora hat from the coat rack by the door and flipped it over his head. "Evan, watch your sister. Don't go out unless you absolutely have to –"

"Don't make loud noises, don't let anyone see you, _blah blah blah_." Evan imitated irritably. "You say that every single morning, Father."

Blake sighed his 'this-is-my-life-as-a-single-father-and-I-can't-deal-with-teenagers' sigh. "Dinner's in the fridge. I'm working late tonight so don't wait around for me."

Before Evan could retort that he said _that_ every single morning as well, Dr. Blake swept out the door and it snapped shut with a sharp _click!_

Evan waited to make sure that his father wasn't coming back because he forgot his keys. He then rose from the couch, the catalogue lying forgotten on the cushions.

Asther skipped after him, a white and copper shadow, as Evan marched to his room and pulled open his cupboard, digging through his clothes to reveal the small collection of alchemy texts hidden underneath. As he selected one he needed to review, his sister watched from where she was perched on his bed like a canary, head cocked and eyes curious.

"Brother, why does Papa's eye colour change whenever he goes out?"

"It's called coloured contact lenses, Asther." explained Evan, sitting back against the wall as he flipped through the yellowed and frayed pages.

"But I like Papa's eyes when they're red. I don't like them when they're black."

"Well, unfortunately, having red eyes is dangerous in Amestris, even if you can prove that you're not of direct Ishvalan heritage."

Asther was silent for a moment, and Evan could almost hear the cogs turning in her young brain as it tried to process this strange bit of information.

He shrugged, returning to his book. Someday, all this – the running, the hiding, not being able to play with the other children – it would all make sense to her.

Outside, a key turned in the lock and Evan automatically stiffened, hastily stuffing the text on biomedical alchemy underneath the covers of his bed. But when a pair of familiar footsteps trudged through the door, accompanied by two voices raised in mild argument, he relaxed.

Xander's face appeared in the doorway. "Hellooo!"

Asther shrieked in delight and threw herself at her older cousin. "Big-Brother-Xander!"

Evan rolled his eyes as Xander hoisted her small frame onto his shoulders before prancing around the living room, making obliging horse noises as Asther spurred him on with more shrieks of laughter.

"Xander, tone it down!" Xandria snapped at her twin as she pulled off her cap and shook out her long waves of ash white hair. Her gaze landed on Evan, and she raised an eyebrow. "I have something for you in the kitchen."

Evan nodded, eyes glinting in anticipation.

A plain, unexciting black plastic bag had been laid on the kitchen counter, and Evan emptied its contents onto the wooden surface, barely able to suppress his almost childish excitement.

Xandria watched as she pulled out a bottle of apple cider from their pantry.

Evan ran trembling fingers over the thick leather-bound covers, eyes greedily drinking in the multitude of titles spread out before him. "You managed to get them all!"

"I had to visit quite a few bookstores and alchemy shops to find some of the rarer editions." remarked Xandria, smirking in satisfaction as she popped open the bottle.

"It _has_ been a long three months since you've last visited." Evan flipped open the first of the books, an old, limited version text on medical alchemy written by famed alchemist Paracelsus. "But I guess I should thank you for all these – sincerely."

The smirk on Xandria's face widened. "When I found you in that slum all those years ago, all beaten up and bruised but still _refusing_ to give back the alchemy book you stole…I promised you that you would never have to steal another alchemy text ever again, didn't I?"

Evan snorted. "Can we not bring that particular incident up again? It's embarrassing."

Xandria nonchalantly raised one shoulder up and down and tipped back the bottle against her lips.

Evan stacked his newly acquired books into a neat pile. "I heard about the East City train station ruckus on the radio last week."

He cautiously flicked his eyes up to Xandria, who had gone very, very still.

She sighed. "I told them it was a stupid idea. The military caught wind of it and managed to disable the bomb before it could detonate."

Evan continued to watch her. "Was he there?"

"The Flame Alchemist?" Xandria swallowed another mouthful of her cider. "Yes."

Evan felt boiling hatred uncoil like a poisonous snake in the pit of his belly. He dropped his eyes and said nothing more.

"I…I think I finally hit my limit, Evan." Xandria paused and closed her eyes. "Ever since…ever since this new leader took charge of the group, everything we've done has become more radical and more _drastic_. There were _children_ at that station, Evan. Wives, husbands, _families_ – and most of them had no hand in the war. Was I really ready to be responsible for all of their deaths?"

"They're Amestrians. They watched on the sidelines while we were massacred like animals," said Evan quietly. "That is enough."

Xandria's eyes snapped open, her gaze hard and unyielding. "It's not enough for me."

"If you really don't like it, why not leave?"

Xandria laughed hoarsely. "We're _terrorists_ , Evan. No matter what they say, that's what we are. At the beginning, Xander and I were forced to be part of them to survive, and for a time I really _did_ believe that what we were doing was right. But with our new leader…I wouldn't be surprised if he shot both of us to serve as examples of what happens to people who want out."

Evan was silent, the first strands of a strange idea beginning to weave and form in his mind's eye. "Will you be leaving soon?"

"In two weeks. There'll be a military ball held by some general in South City then. We're arranging a hit on their venue." Xandria completely emptied her bottle, frowning as if the thought of killing displeased her. "Blood will flow."

Evan absentmindedly traced shapes on the kitchen counter, catching himself as he realized that he was drawing the large transmutation circle he had seen in the Fifth Laboratory. "If you can't leave…then why not just get rid of them?"

Xandria stared at her cousin incredulously. "Have you heard a _word_ of what I've just said? Those people are dangerous! It's not like I can just make them all disappear like magic."

Evan's lips curled into a conspiratorial smile. "Tell me, cousin Xandria."

"Have you ever heard of something called the Philosopher's Stone?"

* * *

 _ **Unknown Location, Ishval**_

 _ **Present Day, 1915**_

 _Fear._

A terrible, dreadful sensation, but also a vital response which served survival.

Evan Blake now knew that he was wrong about one thing, though.

Fear, like hate, will never truly go away.

He paced restlessly in his small room like a caged beast – one of the few that were not either completely or partially destroyed that afternoon.

His face cast in shadow by the encroaching twilight, Evan clutched his head as fear and hatred battled each other in the coliseum of his mind. His actions had been governed by these two emotions for most of his life, and now he was so _sick_ of it.

He clenched his teeth and let loose a low and guttural roar, slamming a fist into the adjacent wall.

He ended up with bruised knuckles and an even darker mood.

"Brother?"

He looked up at the soft voice, eyes alighting on the shadowy form clinging to the cracked doorframe.

A single ruby eye stared at him from behind the doorway, and Evan caught her wince as she took a wary step back.

Sighing, he turned and sat on the small mattress that served as his bed, patting the empty space next to him. "Let me take a look at your leg."

Hesitantly, like a timid cat, Asther crept towards her older brother and perched herself on the edge of the mattress. She was covered in various scrapes and bruises from her ordeal earlier that day, and her right foot was wrapped in a thick swath of bandage.

"Papa told me it's just a sprained ankle." Asther wriggled her toes experimentally. "He said I'm lucky he brought some of his medical supplies."

"You shouldn't be walking around," scolded Evan, rising and kneeling down on the ground to take a closer look at her injury. "Does it really hurt?"

Asther bit her lip, and Evan could tell that she was trying to be brave. "Only…only a little?"

Evan snorted at her badly delivered lie. "Stay still." Retrieving his trusty piece of chalk from his pocket (it was rather crushed by all that running and diving around), Evan drew a simple transmutation circle on the floor and held Asther's foot over it.

It blazed to life, and Asther had to turn away from the blinding light which followed.

Evan let go of her foot and rubbed off the circle. "Does it feel better?"

Asther beamed and nodded eagerly. "It doesn't hurt anymore!"

"I used alchemy to dull the pain receptors around your ankle," said Evan, straightening and dusting himself off. "But not feeling pain is still medically dangerous, so it'll only last for an hour or so."

Asther's brilliant smile slowly wore and faded away. "Brother…do you hate me?"

Evan blinked in confusion. "What?"

Asther lowered her eyes to the ground, fingering her mask nervously. "I've been – I – I like Mr. Roy. And he saved my life today…so I don't want to hate him anymore." She looked up at him, gaze almost pleading. "Would you hate me for that, brother?"

Evan passed a hand over his face and inhaled deeply.

For someone who was barely eight, Asther could be a surprisingly perceptive child.

"No, Asther. I won't ever hate you. It's just – it's just been a bad week, okay?"

He could feel it. This almost tangible connection between brother and sister, tentatively straining and tugging as it tested their limits. He was afraid again – afraid that he would lose her and that connection.

Asther moved as if to say something, but was interrupted by the distant sound of breaking glass.

Evan started, nerves still jittery and on edge.

"What was _that?_ "

* * *

If there was something everyone who knew the golden-haired alchemist agreed on, it was this:

Edward Elric absolutely _sucked_ at being stealthy.

Ironically (or perhaps predictably), Edward Elric was also the only person who disagreed that he absolutely sucked at being stealthy.

Even so, as the Fullmetal Alchemist swung himself through the broken window, landing inside the building with a tad bit more noise than what defined 'stealthiness' – he had to admit that those other people may have had a point.

Tossing the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his bright gold hair, Edward wrapped the red fabric a little closer around him and slunk down the darkened corridors, eyes darting warily at the writhing shadows.

After a few moments of this, Ed decided that he was still a little too conspicuous and pressed himself against the wall instead, moving slowly along it like some sort of demented crab.

His heavy elevator shoes crunched against the scattered debris on the ground as Edward stepped over part of a collapsed ceiling.

He winced at his own tendency for loudness and swore to himself.

 _Swish!_

Edward froze as something flashed past the side of his face, tearing part of his hood and pinning it to the wall.

He stared at the still-quivering throwing knife firmly embedded in the concrete, fastening him in place like a butterfly in a child's insect collection.

"Did no one ever tell you that _red_ is the absolute _worst_ colour for sneaking around enemy territory?" A strong female voice resonated behind him.

Ed whirled around, locking eyes with the Ishvalan woman standing several metres down the corridor, her long white hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

Even in the dim light, Edward could tell that she was rather pretty, in the way that a white tiger or a rearing cobra was beautiful. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and was callously flipping another knife through the air with one hand, the razor sharp blade glinting deadly silver as she caught it adeptly in her palm.

Edward's molten eyes flashed. "Who said I was sneaking around?" With a diabolical grin, he clapped his hands together.

The sound echoed down the seemingly empty hallways, alerting every other person in the building of his presence there.

Nothing happened.

The lady raised an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to do something?"

Ed could have kicked himself. Clapping his hands had become somewhat of a reflexive gesture in the years he had been a State Alchemist.

He opened his mouth to retort something sharp and witty which would save his already crumbling pride, but then thought the better of it and shrugged instead. "You know, I'm already late for an appointment so…gotta run!"

Tugging himself free of the knife, Edward took off at a mad dash, ducking as another knife sailed past his head and nearly sheared off his antennae.

"Xander! Stop him!" she commanded.

 _Who –_

In the split second Ed had glanced back at his first attacker, he nearly slammed into a second one.

Skipping backwards to avoid the punch flying towards his face, Edward raised his fists in a defensive stance as he eyed his opponent – a young Ishvalan man who looked surprisingly like the woman he had encountered several moments before.

The man squinted at Edward, seeming a little reluctant to subdue him by force.

Taking advantage of his brief hesitation, the smaller teenager snapped out his automail leg, driving it first into his ankle, then using his momentum to slam his elbow into the man's face.

Ducking under and around him as his unsuspecting victim yelped in pain, Edward sprinted down the corridor.

 _Come on, come on…Where are you, where are you?_

Another figure stepped out of an open doorway and into his path. Ed clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes, ready for anything.

Unfortunately, in the deepening darkness, Edward noticed the white gleam of a transmutation circle a second too late.

Ribbons of liquid stone snaked around Edward before he could dodge around them, wrapping around his legs and immediately solidifying, trapping him in a cage of alchemized cement.

Edward swore loudly for the umpteenth time since he'd entered the building.

"What the hell? I think you broke my goddamn nose, _again_!"

Edward strained to turn his head at the high-pitched whine.

The two Ishvalans from before – _twins?_ he wondered vaguely – were approaching him cautiously. The man, whom Ed assumed was 'Xander', was wincing as he wiped blood from his nostrils.

Ed smiled, and for a moment there he felt almost sincerely apologetic."Aww, I'm sorry about that. I thought you were that guy who smashed a vase over my head. Payback, you'll understand? Now, where _is_ that guy anyway?"

"That would be me." Edward turned back at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice, smile twisting into something a little more dangerous.

The person striding towards him now, arms crossed, chin cocked, seemed perhaps several years older than Edward (as well as several inches taller). His facial features were rugged, crimson eyes mercilessly sharp in a desert-harsh way – the face of someone who had seen and experienced far too much.

He stopped a few feet short of him, well beyond striking distance. "Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist."

Edward scowled. " _Former_ Fullmetal Alchemist."

He simply smirked. "Once a dog of the military, always a dog of the military."

Edward clenched his jaw and schooled his face back into a vague representation of calmness. "You are an alchemist too." He replied bluntly.

The young man glanced down at his hands, white with chalk residue. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"I thought Ishvalans were forbidden from doing alchemy. It goes against the teachings of your god Ishvala." Ed remarked viciously.

The scarlet eyes which snapped up to meet his golden ones were alarming enough in intensity that Edward nearly looked away. "It is not me who has forsaken Ishvala, but the other way around. I have no need for a dead religion and useless traditions."

"Evan…" muttered Xander, still holding a hand over his presumably broken nose, but his eyebrows were scrunched up with worry.

'Evan' raised a hand, stopping Xander from going any further. "What are you doing here, Edward Elric?"

"That is none of your damn –" Edward's menacing scowl promptly dropped as the nervous face of a little Ishvalan girl peered out at him from behind Evan.

 _Well, crap. There's a kid here. Looks like profanity is out of the question now._

Feeling Ed's surprised gaze on her, the girl started and recoiled back, tugging on Evan's sleeve. "Brother, don't be mean. He was nice to me on the street."

"Brother?" Edward raised his eyebrows. He then peered sideways at the girl, cocking his head as he tried to remember why her voice sounded so familiar. "You're – you're that apple girl Mustang crashed into a few days ago!"

The girl nodded once shyly, and hid behind the comforting form of her older brother.

"Asther, stay behind me." Evan placed a hand on her head in a protective gesture. "Don't be fooled by this kid's small stature. With or without alchemy, he's as dangerous as any one of them."

Edward's nostrils instantly flared, and he flushed red with anger. "NOW HOLD ON A SECOND! DID YOU JUST CALL ME A PINT-SIZED BEANSPROUT SMALLER THAN A – _ow!_ "

He winced as the unnamed Ishvalan woman tugged sharply on his braid. "What the hell!"

"Answer the question." She requested brusquely.

Edward frowned and spread his hands out, palms up, to show that he wasn't carrying any weapons. "Fine, I surrender myself as a hostage. I'm just here to talk."

" _Talk?_ That doesn't seem quite like the Fullmetal Alchemist's style." commented Evan, every last word dripping with thick sarcasm.

By this point, Ed was _thoroughly_ pissed off by the guy's condescending attitude, but he pushed those volatile feelings back down his throat as Hawkeye's words played and replayed in his mind.

 _Don't let them know we're desperate. Let them think that we're still coming for them, and that the only thing standing in between us breaking down that front door is_ you _._

"Look, you _need_ me and you know it," drawled Edward casually. "I'm not part of the military anymore, which means that I'm a civilian – and a very important one at that. While the military may not hesitate to treat their own soldiers as collateral damage, they can't do anything to you as long as I am here."

Evan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How do I know that you're not just playing us?"

"I surrendered on my own free will, didn't I?" said Edward confidently. "Which means that I'm here to help you settle all this in a _peaceful_ manner. No one else needs to get hurt."

Edward's audience seemed to digest his statement.

"He's right," said the woman. "About the hostage part, at least. We should keep him alive for now – he could prove useful in the future."

"Xandria –" started Evan.

"Like it or not, you're trapped here," interjected Edward, voice deceptively cool. "Even with an alchemist on your side, it's going to cost you heftily to barge out of here and right into the squad of trained soldiers waiting outside. And unless you have some kind of convenient escape route we don't know about – which I am assuming you don't because if you _did_ you'll be long gone by now – your only option is to listen to me."

He paused, letting his words sink in. None of the Ishvalans had moved to correct him.

"Evan." Xandria was the first to break the tense stillness. "Release him."

Evan's expression darkened. "But –"

"Evan, do as I say." Xandria's voice was completely cold, and left no illusions as to what she would do to her dear cousin if he did not obey her instructions. "Xander, make sure our honoured guest is properly restrained and doesn't have any amusing tricks up his sleeves."

Evan scowled and grumbled something beneath his breath as he reversed his transmutation.

Edward barely got a moment to contemplate escape before Xander shoved him to the ground, pressing a knee firmly to the small of his back as he whipped off Ed's cloak and began to secure the younger boy's hands with the scarlet material.

"Ouch!" Ed winced. "Watch it!"

Xander paid zero heed to his complaints as he roughly hauled Edward back up to his feet and started patting his body down for hidden weapons – and judging from the coolly efficient manner the older Ishvalan went about this task, Ed guessed that he had done this many times before.

He hesitated when he reached Edward's automail leg. Ed glanced down at him. "I'd rather you not," he smiled humourlessly. "I'm a little sensitive about my missing limbs."

Xander was nice enough to move straight on to Edward's flesh leg, pulling out a rather crushed packet of sugar-coated biscuits from his pocket.

"Hey!" protested Ed as Xander raised it in the air, displaying the snack for both Evan and Xandria to see. "That's for the colonel."

"Hmm…" Xandria plucked the packet from Xander's grasp and turned it around in her hands, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Who knew that Fullmetal could be so nice when it came to Flame?"

"That's not being _nice_ , it's just –" Ed frowned as his brain failed to come up with a reasonable excuse. He remedied his slight hesitation with an Edward-Elric-patented-glare instead. "You know what? It's _none_ of your business. And on that note, I want to speak to Mustang."

There was a single beat of silence in which the only sound in the narrow hallway was the rustling of plastic as Xandria continued to examine his bag of cookies.

"I'm afraid that's not possible right now." responded Xandria coolly.

Edward froze.

Very rarely in his life had Edward experienced dread in its purest form – especially when he himself was the one in grave danger. But now was one of those bizzare moments, and Ed felt his insides turn to ice. "What does that mean?"

Xandria tilted her head, seeming to assess the blonde teenager. Her calculating gaze fell on Edward's perplexed golden one, and – was it his imagination? – her garnet eyes softened, just a little. "You'll see in a moment."

Evan snorted and swivelled around, straightening himself haughtily. "You're going to regret this, Xandria."

"If I do, then that's my problem." replied his cousin steadily.

"Fine then. I reserve my right to say 'I told you so'." Evan wrapped his fingers around Asther's wrist, pulling the younger child along. "You handle him. I'm going to tell dear old dad that we have a _very_ special visitor."

Xandria watched him go, shaking her head in exasperation. She casted a brief glance in Edward's direction. "You know, kid, you have a very steady head for a fourteen year old."

Edward blinked at the unexpected compliment. "Why, thank you – Wait, I AM SIXTEEN! _SIX_ _TEEN!_ WERE YOU JUST CALLING ME –"

"I take back everything that I just said." sighed Xandria as the golden-eyed teenager continued to rant and rave.

* * *

It was a well-known and (as Edward would later discover) well-advertised fact that Colonel Roy Mustang was a complete slacker when it came to work.

The younger boy had often caught him dozing on his desk when he dropped by Eastern Command at the end of the day to hand in some long overdue report. And Christ, the man actually _snored_ – Edward couldn't stop giggling the first time he'd walked in on Mustang's evening snooze.

Of course, Ed wasted no time in advertising said fact even further – there wasn't one military officer in East City who hadn't borne witness to Edward's dramatic complaints regarding his 'lazy-ass-bastard-of-a-commanding-officer'.

Edward's relentless teasing had eventually spiralled out of control and into a major argument – one of the few in which Ed made sure to slam the door _extra_ hard on his way out and swore repeatedly to the heavens that he would _never_ talk to his superior ever again.

Until Hughes pulled him aside and hinted that the only reason Mustang ended up passed out on his desk by the end of most days was because, like Edward, he too suffered from a chronic case of nightmares.

Naturally, Hughes also had a few incriminating and rather embarrassing shots of his dozing best friend which he repeatedly used to blackmail said friend into bearing with his Gracia and Elicia rants twice every week, so Edward didn't think the lieutenant colonel was in a position to be lecturing him about being nice.

Even so, Edward never brought the matter up again.

Truth be told, the Fullmetal Alchemist had a healthy dose of respect for the private and personal nature of slumber. For someone who couldn't bear to share a room with anyone other than his brother, as Edward's frequent night terrors were something he'd much rather no one else were privy to – the mere biological process of falling _asleep_ had becoming something of a sacred ritual to him.

For it was in your dreams that you were the most vulnerable, when all of your hard-built walls and barriers and defences crumbled to dust.

For that reason, Edward paused at the open doorway, hesitant to go in.

Xandria had been hauling him roughly by the arm up until this point (she was deceptively strong for someone so slender), but now she let him go, though the knife she held close to the back of his neck never wavered. "Well, are you going in?"

Ed swallowed thickly. "Is – Wha –"

He couldn't see Xandria's face, but her voice was cool. "Don't worry. He's completely fine, just a little passed out – no thanks to _your_ military."

Edward winced at her verbal barb despite himself, but didn't move to counter it. Xandria removed her knife. "Xander, tie him to a chair then stand guard to make sure our hostages don't try anything funny. I'm going to check on the situation outside."

"Why me?" griped Xander, his voice slightly muffled as he continued to pinch the bridge of his bleeding nose.

"Because I asked you to." With that final curt response, Xandria promptly turned on her heel and proceeded to stomp up the stairs.

Xander wasted no time in manhandling a darkly scowling Edward into an empty chair, swiftly untying his hands and securing them behind the back of the chair.

Edward tried to wriggle his wrists, but it proved to be a futile effort. "What are you? Some kind of knot-tying king?"

"It's just practice." Xander straightened, his expression completely serious. "Is this position okay for you?"

Ed snorted, but he couldn't quite wipe the amused smile off his face. "Jeez, I didn't know kidnappers could be this nice," he paused. "Yeah, it's just fine. Thank you."

Xander nodded and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Edward turned back around and stared uncomfortably at the occupied bed in front of him.

The bed itself was a rusty frame of mangled metal – Edward assumed that it had been used by the previous occupants of this old place. Curled on top of the threadbare mattress was a strangely familiar figure, his back facing Edward as he slept deeply.

That shock of unruly black hair was unmistakable even in the falling darkness, and Ed, relatively alone and unobserved, allowed himself to shut his eyes, lean his head back again the chair, and breathe a little easier.

It had only been a few days, but the tension and anxiety had stretched out those seventy-two hours so much that they'd seemed torturously endless. He didn't want to admit it – would rather die than say it aloud – but he had been honestly, _genuinely_ worried.

And as much as he couldn't figure out _why_ , seeing his annoying, bastardly, moronic ex-superior officer alive and relatively in one piece felt like a lungful of fresh air in a toxic atmosphere.

He opened his eyes. "I know you're there."

There was a guilty squeak and a rustle of clothes as the little Ishvalan girl peeked out at Edward from behind a pile of empty cardboard boxes.

Ed cocked his head, and cursed as the movement caused his long bangs to fall into his eyes. "Your name is Asther, isn't it?"

The girl seemed to consider him with her bright cat-like gaze, before nodding once.

Edward didn't have much experience with children save for a few Elicia babysitting sessions, but he knew enough to tell that this girl felt more curiosity than apprehensiveness. "Would you mind doing me a favour?"

She considered his request for a moment longer, before nodding again.

"There's a packet of biscuits in my right pocket. Could you get that for me and put it on the bed?" Ed smiled. "My hands are…kind of tied right now."

Asther giggled at his little pun. Now thoroughly encouraged, she bravely limped up to him and followed his request.

With the small snack safely on the edge of the mattress, Asther folded her legs beneath her and sat down on the floor.

For an eight year old, she was very patient. Even Alphonse had been a hyperactive human rocket literally bouncing off the walls at that age – but she now sat as still and silent as stone, hands folded neatly in her lap.

He wasn't sure what prompted him to ask her that question.

"What…happened to your face?"

Even though Edward couldn't care less about what other people thought about him and, by extension, didn't give a damn about offending people either – he instantly regretted his coarse wording as soon as the sentence left his mouth.

The girl was silent for a full three seconds before looking up at him and smiling. "Would you like to see?"

Before Ed could tell her _no thank you_ , Asther slipped her fingers underneath the band which held her half-mask in place and lifted it over her head.

Edward inhaled sharply.

His fists clenched, and he tore his eyes away from her fully exposed face, aware that he had been staring at it in horror.

"It's okay to look." Asther intoned softly, touching a tentative hand to the smooth, glistening scar tissue. "It mostly healed by itself, which is why it seems so bad."

Ed turned around slowly, forcing himself to meet her gaze.

"People also usually ask me how it happened."

"I don't have to ask to know." Ed glanced almost involuntarily at the still form of the colonel and tightened his lips. "And your right eye?"

"Destroyed in the fire." Asther's tone was impossibly emotionless for a child. She slipped the mask back over her head. "Father switched to ophthalmology because of it. He said that if he couldn't give me my face back, the least he could do was give me my eye back," she dropped her chin on a hand and smiled up at Edward. "But I can still see without it, so I don't really mind."

Edward clenched his jaw and dropped his head. _Knowing and witnessing were definitely two completely different things._ "I think I understand now. I can understand why so much hate exists between Ishvalans and Amestrians."

"Really? Because I don't." Asther pouted, and suddenly she was that little child again. "It happened when I was too young to really remember…so I've always been used to this way of living. Father and brother and cousins Xander and Xandria remember what it was like before, so maybe that's why they want this place – Ishval – back so badly. I don't. I just want to go home."

"But –" Ed frowned uncertainly. "Isn't _this_ your home?"

Asther shook her head firmly, braided hair flying. "No. My little apartment with brother and father was home, where we were all happy and _safe_. I don't like seeing brother so angry, or father so distressed. I just…want everything to go back to the way they were before."

 _I just want everything to go back to the way they were before._ Edward had lost count of the number of times he himself had made that wish.

She widened her eyes. "But you're the Fullmetal Alchemist – Hero of the People, aren't you? Could you help me do that?"

Edward blinked, but there was no possible way he could ever look at that purely innocent face, beaming with untarnished hope, and say no. "Of course – of course I'll help you."

Her smiled widened, and no matter how uncertain Ed felt about the near future, all those fears were promptly washed away.

She sat with him for another hour as he recited stories about his ventures as a State Alchemist before Xander interrupted them and said that she should leave before her brother came looking for her.

Left alone in the dark room, Edward leaned back in his chair and breathed out a long sigh.

Mustang shifted and mumbled something incoherent.

Edward snickered softly.

 _Who knew that he both snored_ and _talked in his sleep?_

* * *

The day he lost his sight, Roy found that it was easier to face the stiffening darkness if he closed his eyes and pretended.

For someone who had always taken the simple act of _seeing_ for granted, being robbed of such a basic function was quite simply – disconcerting. It was disturbing to open your eyes and see nothing when there had been _something_ there just a moment before.

So he kept his eyes closed, and no one questioned it until the excitement had boiled down and somehow he'd reluctantly ended up in the hospital himself.

 _Could you open your eyes so I can examine them, Colonel Mustang?_

 _I – Ahem, is this really necessary?_

 _Sir, Hawkeye did say that you were to follow the doctor's instructions._

 _Yes, yes. Fine, I know._

He opened them, trying to regain a previous sense of normalcy.

He saw nothing.

Even now, months later, he couldn't deny that a single seed of irrational hope still resided deep in his heart. That every morning when he awoke, he wondered if _maybe_ , just maybe, that today will be the day that he could see again.

So when he blearily dragged himself from the depths of some long forgotten dream, a part of him still knew that this morning would be no different.

He laid a hand over his closed eyelids, breathing deeply as he mused that he couldn't remember having a full night's sleep uninterrupted by nightmares.

Roy raised his right hand, frowning when metal scraped his wrist and he realized that it was held in place by something that felt like a handcuff.

 _What…happened?_

As soon as he posed that question, the events from the previous few days reinserted themselves into his sleep addled brain – the attempted escape, the room collapsing, passing out.

He opened his eyes and blinked.

Nothing.

Sighing in resignation, he sat up and rubbed his already aching forehead. It felt simply too early to be doing any sort of thinking.

"You're awake! Ah, I mean – _finally_ you're awake. Took you damn long enough."

Roy started at the sudden voice emanating from his direct right. A voice which sounded _exactly_ like –

" _Edward?_ "

He paused, and backtracked over his line of reasoning. "No, you can't – That's impossible. I can't believe I'm _hallucinating_ Fullmetal's voice."

 _Have I finally lost it?_

"YOU _SERIOUSLY_ HAVE THE NERVE TO CALL ME A HALLUCINATION?"

Roy frowned, still unconvinced, and reached out a hand towards the source of the voice.

Where he expected to find thin air, his hand landed on someone's head instead.

 _One beat. Two beats._

He inhaled in a mixture of horrified realization and sudden, unadulterated rage.

" _What the hell are you doing here, Fullmetal!?_ "

* * *

To be fair, Edward Elric could see why so many people had often mistook him for the colonel's 'son'.

Yes, it annoyed him to no end and usually ended up with someone either transmuted to the ceiling or admitted to the hospital due to various external injuries. But, he was reasonably willing to accept that sometimes, mistakes happen.

Despite the fact that _one_ : they had absolutely _nothing_ in common from hair colour, facial features, all the way down to their personalities; and _two_ : Mustang wasn't even _that_ old.

But the colonel _did_ boss him around and asked after his wellbeing (although he usually did this in a snarky, sarcastic way which made Edward's fists start to itch) way more than Ed's actual father.

So that was something, at least.

But Edward had never tolerated any actions of parental affection, implied or otherwise, nor had Mustang ever offered anything which vaguely resembled parental affection in the first place.

Right now, however, as the Fullmetal Alchemist felt the colonel's hand touch the crown of his head, bringing with its warmth faraway memories of Hohenheim doing the exact same thing in his early childhood –

Edward went very still, not even moving to duck out of his reach.

It felt…

Strangely…comforting.

The expression on Mustang's face morphed from bewildered, to shock, to pure _anger_ in the space of a second.

Before Edward could process what was happening, Mustang withdrew his hand, and immediately smashed it back onto Ed's head with much more force than before.

Edward yelped in surprised pain.

" _OW!_ WHAT WAS _THAT_ FOR!?"

* * *

It wasn't often that Xander would awake in the morning to the sound of raised voices and heated shouting.

" _OW!_ WHAT WAS _THAT_ FOR!?"

" _What the hell are you doing here, Fullmetal!?_ "

"What do you mean _what the hell I'm doing here?_ I'm here to save your frikin' ass, Colonel Bastard!"

"Who said I even _needed_ saving?"

"Well, the least you could do is _TRY TO SOUND GRATEFUL!_ Do you know how much trouble I had to go through to get here?"

"You shouldn't have bloody hell come here in the first place!"

Xander placed a hand on the doorknob, but hesitated to barge in on the argument currently raging on inside as the voices got louder and the insults more colourful.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and Xander whirled to find Xandria smiling at him. "Morning, brother."

Xander opened his mouth, closed it again, and simply pointed a finger at the closed door he'd been guarding.

Xandria shot the door an unconcerned glance. "Don't worry about it. It's fine."

"It's _fine?_ Those two sound like they're about to kill each other in there!"

Xandria laughed. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the renowned Fullmetal-Flame spats? They're legendary around Amestris."

She held a finger up for silence as they both listened to the continuing verbal war.

"Look who's talking. The three foot tall pipsqueak who can't even see past the edge of my desk."

"I AM _NOT_ A THREE FOOT TALL PIPSQUEAK YOU MORALLY BANKRUPT COLONEL WITH A GOD COMPLEX!"

Xandria winked conspiratorially. "You know what? They sound just fine to me."

* * *

Edward had long since come to the conclusion that their often fiery squabbles were as short-lived as they were common.

"I brought food," huffed Edward – man, did all that yelling feel satisfying.

Mustang groped around his side with his free hand – his other one had been handcuffed to the bedpost, more as a customary sign of meagre restraint than for any practical use. He perked up a little as his fingers found Edward's packet and he ripped it open with his teeth. "Why thank you, Fullmetal. That was awfully thoughtful of you."

Ed snorted indignantly. "You can thank Al for that. _I_ couldn't care less whether you starved to death or not."

Mustang raised an eyebrow as he popped one of the slightly crushed biscuits into his mouth. "Where is Alphonse, anyway? Please don't tell me he came with you."

Edward had to visibly tear his eyes away from the colonel's blood soaked shirt and the bandages encasing his right shoulder. His military jacket was hanging from the bedpost, also covered in a thick layer of dried blood. "He's with Hawkeye and the others."

Mustang cocked his head in disbelief. "And he just _let_ you waltz into such an obviously enemy-occupied territory by yourself?"

"Well kind of? I think." Edward blew out an irritated sigh. " _Fine_ , I left without him knowing. I couldn't bring Al along – not on this one. He's not used to the idea that he could actually get seriously _hurt_ in his physical body, and since he's an alchemist the Ishvalans would have seen him as a threat. I couldn't take that chance."

Mustang simply nodded, understanding but not entirely happy. "You know what's your problem, Fullmetal? You always think about protecting others, but never _yourself._ If you would just stop intentionally throwing yourself into dangerous situations, your life would be a whole lot easier."

Edward rolled his eyes to the heavens. "You're the one to talk."

Apparently, Mustang couldn't come up with a snide enough reply to Ed's statement, because he completely ignored the younger boy and continued to chew on his snack instead.

Edward caught himself staring at Mustang's bandages again, but he swallowed the encroaching questions back down his throat and said instead: "So, um – Elizabeth sends her regards."

According to Hawkeye, that ambiguous statement was supposed to mean something to the colonel.

Mustang cocked his already raised eyebrow a little higher. "I see. How's dear Elizabeth? I hear her store in Central is going quite well." He mouthed silently at Edward: _Is there anyone listening?_

"Ah, well, I think she's doing pretty good. Uh, she says you should drop by her shop more often." Edward fibbed hastily. He immediately dropped his voice down to a quiet hiss: " _One_ _Ishvalan outside our door. I think his name is Xander._ "

Mustang inclined his head imperceptibly to indicate that he had heard him. "Fullmetal, I'm feeling rather parched. Would you mind getting me some water?"

Edward did his own little eyebrow raise. He could see where this was going. "How the hell do you expect me to do that?" He called, his voice slightly louder than what constituted regular speech. "I'm kind of, you know, _tied to a chair here_ no thanks to a _certain_ someone."

Ed paused in anticipation.

As expected, the door creaked open and a single red iris appeared in the narrow crack. "Do you need water?"

Edward hid a smile. They were lucky that the nicer one of the Ishvalans had been standing guard. "Yes please, if you don't mind?" When Xander hesitated, Ed added sarcastically. "Besides, it's not like either of us are getting out of here anytime soon."

He rattled his chair and wriggled his tied hands to emphasise his point.

Xander frowned once but seemed to relent. He shut the door, and both Amestrians waited in tense silence as his moving footsteps slowly faded away.

Mustang breathed a sigh of relief. Now that their only unsuspecting audience was gone, they could converse more freely. "You were saying?"

Ed leaned in a little closer, keeping his voice cautiously low. "Grumman knows."

The colonel's sole response was a single, slow blink. "How much?"

"Hawkeye told him everything. She...she didn't have a choice."

He nodded. "What's the situation outside?"

"Hawkeye currently has full authority granted personally by the Fuhrer, so she kind of outranks everyone right now. Rourke and Gabel are gone because of her," explained Edward quickly. "Apparently, we have permission to commence negotiations with the people who snagged you, but she wanted me to ask if you had any better ideas?"

"That depends," said Mustang, and for once his countenance was completely serious. "How much do the other generals and the public know?"

"Well, people are beginning to notice that you've disappeared without a trace. It _has_ been several days after all," replied Edward. "And Hawkeye said that Grumman would have had to tell the upper military echelons _something_ to justify why he granted her his authority – she expects that he would merely insinuate that you're in some kind of trouble and refrain from elaborating too much about it."

"Hawkeye knows what she's doing," mused Mustang. "She knows that word of Ishvalans being involved in this whole fiasco would jeopardize the enactment of the Restoration Program."

Ed frowned in confusion. "Wait, what?"

"Haven't you wondered why I was so insistent that the Fuhrer not be informed about our situation? If word of this were to leak out to the rest of the military and the public, what do you think will happen to the Ishvalan Restoration Program?"

It dawned on Edward. "It would be seen as Ishvalans breaking the pact of peace and attacking the military. The Program would most likely be dissolved, and everything you've done up till now would have been for nothing."

Mustang nodded stiffly, and he rarely looked so grave that even Edward felt the need to be solemn. "Which is why I want you to promise me, Fullmetal – that no matter what happens, you will _not_ let that ever come to pass."

Edward shook his head, bewildered. "Why is this so important to you? Why are you willing to go so far for this?"

For a moment, Mustang was silent as he contemplated this.

"Same reason why I didn't want my sight back," the colonel intoned softly. "Same reason why _you_ sacrificed your alchemy for Alphonse."

Ed bit his lip and stared down at his lap.

 _Responsibility. Obligation. Guilt._

He gritted his teeth. "Fine, I promise. Now, do you have any idea what we're going to do next? Because Hawkeye already made it really clear to me that if she doesn't hear back from us by tonight, they're about to come barging in here whether we like it or not."

Mustang smirked, and the earlier dour atmosphere instantly dispersed like a morning mist under the sun. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"Hmph. Pray tell."

"What Rourke did yesterday could actually be a blessing in disguise. Ever since I risked myself to save one of their lives, they've been a little nicer to me – or at least, they're a bit more willing to trust me." He propped an elbow up on the mattress, deep in thought. "So the best solution to this is very simple: we make them a proposal."

Edward blinked. "A proposal?"

"Yes, a proposal which both sides benefit from – we help them escape undetected, while they let us go unharmed." Mustang spread out his free hand. "Simple."

"You want to help them _escape?_ "

The hand dropped. "Look. You've met most of them, I expect. Including Asther?"

Edward winced. "The little girl? Yes."

"You can't expect me to stand by and watch her be separated from her family again," said Mustang firmly. "So yes, we _will_ help them escape."

Edward sighed in irritation. "Okay then. But what if they say no?"

"I guess we'll just have to be charmingly convincing then."

"Or…maybe this could help." Edward propped his automail leg on top of his right thigh and leaned over.

After some cramped manoeuvring, he managed to use his teeth to pry off a metal panel which he had already unscrewed much earlier. Xander may have discovered it if he hadn't taken Edward's apparent 'sensitivity' to be real and had been more careful about his inspection.

Haphazardly attached to the flip side of the panel with a piece of adhesive tape was a familiar white shape.

Edward somehow managed to remove the fabric from the panel and dragged himself close enough to the bed to drop it on the covers. "You can thank me later."

Mustang felt around for the object, stopping in surprise as he felt the rough rustle of custom made pyrotex against his scarred palm.

He held up the familiar form of a single ignition glove – crumpled, a little greasy, but still very much functional.

His lips curved into an amused smirk. "Your ingenuity never fails to amaze me, Fullmetal."

Edward couldn't stop a wide grin from overtaking his face. " _Now_ are you glad I showed up?"

"For the record, I think I'd prefer Alphonse. At least _he_ isn't dumb enough to come here in the first place."

" _Shut up,_ Colonel Bastard."


	15. Chapter 14 - Promise

**Author's Note:  
**

 **MERRY CHRISTMAS! :)**

 **So I've been rather naughty (lazy) this Christmas and hence this is very last minute (I'll have to reply to all reviews and guest reviews in my next chapter because I'm too drowsy to do so now).**

 **I apologize in advance for any dumb typo/grammatical errors.**

* * *

 _Chapter 14 – Promise_

 _ **The woods are lovely, dark and deep,**_

 _ **But I have promises to keep,**_

 _ **And miles to go before I sleep.**_

— _"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost_

Edward Elric had lived his entire life by the Law of Equivalent Exchange.

But over the years, as he'd matured and grown, it became clear that there were certain things which were simply priceless – untouchable by alchemy or any scientific law known to man.

 _Family. Life. Soul._

 _Promise._

Strange how these ambiguous and intangible concepts had become so important to him.

Ed hunkered down in his chair, watching Dr. Leonardo Blake suspiciously as he leaned over the colonel, replacing the soiled bandages on his shoulder with fresh white ones.

"I can understand your doubt," commented the doctor, dropping the used bandages into a plastic bag which he swiftly knotted. "After all, I was the one who broke your trust first. But you don't have to watch my every move like a hungry vulture."

Edward simply narrowed his golden eyes further while Mustang turned away to hide a smirk.

"Out of pure curiosity, I have to ask you, doctor." Mustang's question was a casual one, dropped callously in the midst of their conversation. But Edward knew that it was no accident. "Why are you helping me?"

The colonel had pointedly ordered him (and Edward had scathingly remarked that since he wasn't even his superior anymore he had no right to be ordering Edward around) to keep his mouth shut while he worked his 'magic' (to which Edward had scoffed and called him a flat out charlatan).

While Ed had never, and _will_ never, willingly adhere to whatever Mustang told him to do, he grudgingly admitted that he should probably let the older alchemist handle this one.

Since he thought he was _so_ smart.

Blake was silent as he picked up his medical supplies. For a moment, Edward thought he was going to pretend they were see-through glass figurines and stride straight out that door.

To his surprise, the Ishvalan didn't.

"Maybe because I was wrong about myself." Blake furrowed his eyebrows and pinched the bridge of his nose, his expression equal amounts anxiety and perplexity. For just a split second, Edward thought he saw a glimpse of a familiar persona – the worried father who was merely trying to drag his loved ones out of the mess he had made.

"In the end, I couldn't do it. I can't take a life with these hands, and neither can I stand back and watch someone die, no matter how much I may hate that person." Blake lowered his hand. "So don't think of this as anything personal. This is just me doing what I was trained for."

"I think we can both relate to that," mused Mustang. "You know, doctor, we have been at odds this entire time, but has it ever occurred to you that we both want the exact same thing?"

There was another beat of silence. Edward kept watching the doctor's expression intently.

"Oh?" Blake cocked an eyebrow, genuinely amused. "And what common goal could an Ishvalan and an Amestrian possibly have?"

"I can't say the same for all Amestrians, but right now, the two of us _do_ have a mutual aim." Mustang smiled crookedly. "The restoration of Ishval."

Edward blinked, because that was entirely _true._

Blake scoffed in disbelief. "You don't actually think that Ishvalans will _buy_ that crap?"

"Maybe not right now, but once it's officially approved by the Fuhrer – which should happen within the next few weeks – all 'that crap' will become very much more believable, don't you think?" remarked Mustang, using his nonchalant, cool, completely neutral voice which Edward jokingly called his 'politician mode'.

Blake frowned. "Where exactly is this conversation going?"

Mustang's smile widened into something sharper. "To find out, I suggest that you gather all the members of your little scheme in one place. I'm sure they would _love_ to hear what I have to say."

He cocked his head and his voice sobered, just a little. "Instead of all this conflict, perhaps it's time that Ishvalans and Amestrians try a different approach for once."

* * *

Edward didn't actually expect Leonardo Blake to follow through with the colonel's suggestion, but within ten minutes, a total of five Ishvalans of varying ages and degrees of deadliness were gathered in the room – most of them wary, one just plain hateful, but all of them with their curiosity successfully piqued.

Mustang gathered up all the dignity he could muster for a man handcuffed to the side of his bed (when Edward had asked why not just use alchemy to get rid of it, Mustang had sarcastically replied that it was a matter of trust), and spoke:

"I have a proposition for you – myself and Edward will help you bypass the military personnel outside, while you let us go peacefully and without resistance," he smiled winningly. "Simple, no?"

There was a stunned second of silence before Xandria rolled her eyes. "If you're offering escape, we can take care of that ourselves, thank you very much."

"But I haven't used the word 'escape', though it could be called that. What I am offering, is a chance for you to completely disappear, with the chance to return to Ishval once it's reopened."

"I think you need to explain yourself further on that, colonel."

"Let's say you _did_ manage to escape, and got rid of us two 'hostages' in the process. What then? The good doctor here has already been exposed, and it wouldn't take a stretch to figure out who his other 'accomplices' are. Most of you would be hunted for the rest of your lives, and be forced to either live in secrecy or flee to a foreign country," intoned Mustang coolly. "I would advise you not to underestimate the investigative abilities of the military."

Edward raised his eyebrows, maybe just a little bit impressed.

" _Or_ ," Mustang paused, emphasizing the word. "You could do this _my_ way."

Another pause, before Blake said stiffly: "Your point?"

"As a high ranking military official, I have certain…let's say strings I can pull. Procedures I can fake. I can subtly and efficiently close down all investigative efforts into your identities, and maybe even omit Dr. Blake's involvement completely." Mustang's lips curved into his trademark smirk. "This is what only I can give you – a second chance. A second chance for all of you to be able to return to Ishval, and live out the lives you've always wanted."

Edward snorted to himself. He had always known the colonel wasn't above trickery and outright _breaking the law_ when the situation required so, but it was still quite an eye-opener whenever he did it in front of Edward.

And they said that adults were supposed to set a good example.

Now that he thought about it, considering Edward's prime adult influences throughout his teenage life, he really wondered about his own psychological development.

"You say that like you think the Ishvalan Restoration Program is actually going to work." pointed out Xander quietly.

"Because I believe it _will_ work." Mustang sighed dramatically and made a little circle with his wrist to indicate all the people in the room. "All I'm saying is that we've already tried this _your_ way – and look how it ended up. Is giving this program a chance really so far-fetched?"

The colonel couldn't see their faces, but Edward could – and he could also tell that they were clearly wavering. Suspicious, but not altogether disparaging.

 _Well, well. Who knew talking nicely could actually work?_

"What if we refuse?" asked Blake stoically.

"I was hoping this won't come to that." Not missing a beat, Mustang casually slid a hand into his trouser pocket. "But if what I've just said was option one, then _this_ is option two."

Taking out the ignition glove Edward had snuck in, he swiftly slid it over his free hand in one practiced gesture.

The entire room seemed to erupt into brief chaos as every last person who had a weapon on them armed themselves.

"What the hell!?"

Mustang spread his gloved hand in a pacifying manner. "I don't want to hurt anyone if I don't need to," his voice hardened. "But you not agreeing to my terms means that I'm putting myself and my subordinate at unnecessary risk. And as a superior officer, it is my responsibility to ensure that _my_ men make it home in one piece – and if that means more blood on my hands, then so be it."

Edward tensed automatically, wishing fervently that he still had his alchemy and could break free of his restraints. Mustang's expression was now completely serious, and the younger teen couldn't even tell if he was bluffing or not.

But he was bluffing, right?

"So, are we doing this the easy way, or the hard way?"

For a full second, the tension in the air was so palpable Edward could cut it like a slab of warm butter.

A helpless guffaw split the silence, starting everyone into staring at the culprit.

Xandria was laughing, a hand pressed to her mouth. "It seems you don't leave us much of a choice, Colonel Mustang."

"Xandria, you can't be serious!" Evan's tone was both furious and incredulous.

"Why not? He's right – we've tried this our way, so maybe it's time we leave the Amestrians alone and let them try it _their_ way."

Blake passed a hand over his face, his expression teetering on the border of hope and uncertainty. "Say I accept your help. How do I know that you'll go through with your word?"

"You don't." Mustang lowered his hand, smiling bitterly.

"But I never break my promises."

* * *

" _See? I_ told _you I never break my promises!"_

 _Major Maes Hughes grinned widely as he leaned against the doorframe of his best friend's townhouse, a heavy plastic bag pushed victoriously into said friend's face._

 _Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang simply shoved the bag out of his direct field of vision, expression thoroughly unimpressed. "I didn't think you'd take my request for groceries seriously."_

 _"Aww, come on! That's what best friends are for, right?" Maes blinked at the bag, and his indestructible smile dropped just a little. "Buying…groceries?"_

 _Roy sighed and swiped the bag from Maes's grasp. "Come in. I'll get the money."_

 _Pretending that he_ wasn't _going to barge into Roy's home even if he hadn't been invited, Maes cleared away a pile of half-read reports from the sofa, made himself comfortable on it, and left the newest stack of reports – the real reason he was in East City – on top of a treacherously wobbling stack of alchemy books._

 _"I still don't get why you asked me to drop by the grocery store on my way here," called Maes over his shoulder, taking a mug of partially-finished coffee off the side table, sniffing it, and wrinkling his nose. "It's literally right across the street from your house."_

 _Roy's head appeared from behind the door of his study. "The store owner doesn't like me for some reason," frowning in distaste, he slapped a wad of cash and change into Maes's open hand. "And the only other grocery shop is all the way on the other side of the city."_

 _Maes raised one eyebrow suspiciously. "Did you steal someone's girlfriend again?"_

 _"I did not_ steal _anyone's girlfriend." Roy paused, expression comically perplexed. "She was the one who asked_ me _out on a date so it doesn't count."_

 _Maes hid a knowing snigger. "Yeaaah. Right after you dazzled her with your charming smile and winning looks." He glanced at the cash in his palm. "You still owe me 200 cenz."_

 _Roy scoffed. "Cheapskate."_

 _"What is it you alchemists call it? Equivalent Exchange." Maes smiled wickedly at him as Roy scoffed again and trudged back to his study to rummage for some spare change._

 _Maes perked up, his sharp sense of smell catching a whiff of something strange in the air. "Uh, Roy? Something smells weird in your kitchen."_

 _"Don't go in there!" Was his only reply._

 _Of course, Maes was simply the type of person whom reverse psychology would work perfectly on, because he immediately got up from his seat and went to the kitchen._

 _The rolling wave of heat blasted him in the face as soon as he opened the door._

 _"What the – ROY! YOUR KITCHEN IS ON FIRE!"_

 _"What?" A hasty pattering of feet later and Roy appeared next to him, an ignition glove already half-on._

 _Obsidian eyes flashing, he immediately raised his hand and twisted his fingers._

 _The roaring flames, deprived of oxygen, instantly snuffed out._

 _Roy rushed over to the blackened stove to turn it off._

 _Maes Hughes simply gawked at the scorched pan on the stove. "What the – Who the_ hell _leaves a pan of oil on the stove and just walks away?"_

 _Roy shrugged nonchalantly as he accessed the damage to his kitchen. "Oops?"_

 _Maes blinked and backtracked over his words. "You – leaving a pan of oil…" his jaw dropped._

 _"Roy Mustang, were you trying to…cook?"_

 _The irritated turn of Roy's head to hide his embarrassed flush was all the confirmation Maes Hughes needed to collapse on the floor, laughing until the tears blurred his eyes._

 _~.~_

" _Not a word. To_ anyone _."_

 _Maes nodded as he pulled out a sheet of frozen pastry and laid it on the metal tray._

 _"And I would also appreciate it if you would stop snickering."_

 _Maes, although he did not seem like it, was a master of self-control. He stopped obligingly, only to start up again once Roy had his back turned._

 _Roy eyed the ready-made pastry. "Isn't this cheating?"_

 _"If you want me to teach you the two-hour, from scratch version of making spinach quiche I_ can _, but I'll miss my train."_

 _"Fair point." Roy probed the dough curiously. Maes dropped a bunch of vegetables into his arms._

 _"Start cutting."_

 _Roy muttered something wholly unflattering underneath his breath as Maes ransacked his kitchen drawers for a chopping board and knife. "I just_ have _to ask – is this because Hawkeye is always on your case about being a failure at bachelor life?"_

 _Roy narrowed his eyes. "No, this is just me trying to make dinner instead of ordering takeout."_

 _Maes sniggered a little louder. "Same thing."_

 _Roy promptly told him to shut the hell up._

 _As he went about dicing greens, Maes sobered up and gave his dark-haired friend a closer once over. Was this strange desire to make dinner really just because Hawkeye was picking on his culinary abilities again? Or…_

 _Was he trying to distract himself from something?_

 _"How was your trip further East yesterday?" Maes asked innocently. "To…Resembool, I think the town is called?"_

 _If he hadn't been watching him so intently, Maes would have missed the split second Roy had stiffened and instantaneously relaxed._

 _"It was great." Roy let a handful of square-shaped carrots fall into the tray. "Fresh air, blue skies – the like."_

 _"Did you find what you were looking for?"_ And was he disappointed if he didn't?

 _The blade of Roy's knife paused in the midst of slicing a zucchini. "Not…quite," he flicked his eyes over to Maes and back again. "I met two kids when I out there – brothers."_

 _Maes stopped whisking his mixture of eggs and cream, putting down the bowl and turning around fully._

 _Roy kept talking just as his hands kept moving – always keeping busy, always being useful. "Their mother's dead, and their father…he'd just upped and left them. They were in a really bad place."_

 _"And this bothers you…why?" asked Maes bluntly. In a country surrounded by war on all sides, orphaned children weren't the rarest thing you saw on the streets._

 _Roy reached past Maes for the spinach. "On the train back, I started thinking about what you told me – about you and Gracia trying to have kids and starting a family."_

 _Maes forced a cheerful grin. "You'll definitely get first dibs on being godfather if that's what you're worried about."_

 _Roy snorted indignantly. "I couldn't care less about being godfather. Maes – what are you going to do if you and Gracia have children?"_

 _"What am I going to do? Well, for starters, I should get a bigger apartment, because I doubt my current one would fit us all –"_

 _Roy slammed down his knife on the wooden board, the resulting_ twack! _echoing through the small kitchen. "You know that's not what I meant."_

 _Maes decided that it was time to take these questions seriously. "Enlighten me, then."_

 _"Maes, if you ever start a family of your own, I think you should retire."_

 _Roy could be amazingly blunt when he felt like it._

 _Maes blinked, not comprehending. "Roy?"_

 _"Gracia's family has a business in the countryside, right? Why not retire there? I'm sure the scenery is amazing."_

 _"I'm not leaving, Roy Mustang!"_

 _Roy inhaled and spun to face him, and for some reason the kitchen knife in his hand was even more intimidating than both his ignition gloves put together. "I don't want your kid to ever become like those brothers – without a father to guide them, to teach them how to differentiate between right and wrong."_

 _"Roy, you're overthinking this." Maes smiled tightly. "If you worry about every last pesky detail you'd never make it to the top."_

 _"Being concerned about my best friend isn't a 'pesky detail'."_

 _"So you admit it then," the smile on Maes's face widened into a genuine one. "We_ are _best friends."_

 _"Don't change the subject, Hughes." accused Roy, and Maes could tell that he was really wound up by how he was using his last name outside of work._

 _Maes tilted his head to the ceiling and sighed. "I made a promise to you and to Amestris. I said that I will support you, and push you to the top," he grinned. "What kind of person would I be if I broke my word?"_

 _Roy seemed to waver. "That – That doesn't matter."_

 _"Look, if you're so worked up about it, then why not we make each other another promise?" Maes crossed his arms. "I promise you that I won't die until you make Fuhrer, and you can promise me the same thing."_

 _"If a promise is all it takes to keep a person alive, trust me, there would've been a_ lot _less casualties in the civil war."_

 _"Hey, are you questioning my word?" Maes thumped a fist on his chest self-importantly. "I haven't broken my first promise to you, and I'm not about to start now. Alright, I promise I won't die until you make Fuhrer."_

 _Maes stared at Roy meaningfully._

 _Roy frowned uncertainly. "I…promise I won't die until I make Fuhrer?"_

 _"See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Maes chuckled and held out his fist._

 _"What's that supposed to be?"_

 _"It's a fist bump. It's all the range with teenagers these days."_

 _Roy turned around, his nonchalant, controlled, cool self once more. "Don't hold your breath, Hughes."_

 _Maes laughed appreciatively as he poured whisked cream into the tray. He'd just popped the finished product into Roy's oven when the doorbell rang._

 _As Roy strode out of the kitchen to answer it, Maes was left alone to mull over his thoughts – his friend was famous for his unpredictable and bizarre moods, but this conversation was one he knew he would never forget._

 _A familiar female voice drifted in from the open doorway. "You left these at the office, sir. I thought I'd bring them over as they require your signature by tomorrow."_

 _Right on cue, Roy groaned loudly. "But lieutenant –"_

 _Maes entered the living room just in time to greet the person at Roy's door. "Hello, Lieutenant Hawkeye."_

 _Hawkeye, still outfitted in her military uniform, glanced at Maes with the slightest hint of a smile. "Good evening, Major Hughes."_

 _"Dinner is almost ready, if you would like to stick around." Maes offered Roy a conspiratorial wink. "There's more than enough for two."_

 _"Dinner?" Hawkeye arched an eyebrow._

 _Roy shot Maes a look of both gratitude and annoyance. "You should stay for dinner as well, Maes."_

 _"Can't." Maes rattled the watch on his wrist. "Train to catch, remember? But you two enjoy your_ wonderful _evening together."_

 _This time, Roy gave him a sharp death stare before inviting the lieutenant in and shutting the door._

 _Maes smiled to himself as he started back down the street, whistling a little tune which was quickly whisked away by the cool autumn breeze. For a moment, everything in the world couldn't be less than perfect._

To be completely honest, he'd never thought that he would be the first to break their promise.

* * *

Roy Mustang had lived his entire life by the Law of Equivalent Exchange.

But over the years, as he'd seen and experienced the world, it became clear that there were certain things which were simply priceless – untouchable by alchemy or any scientific law known to man.

 _Sin. Guilt. Duty._

 _Promise._

Strange how these ambiguous and intangible concepts had become so important to him.

"Wall!"

"What?" The second right after Edward had yelled his warning, Roy felt his face connect with something hard and unyielding.

Shielding his face with his hands, he crumpled to the floor with a pained groan.

Edward unsuccessfully tried to muffle his snort of laughter.

"I swear you do this on purpose, Fullmetal. No one yells 'wall!' the _second_ before a person walks right into it." Roy scowled darkly, already planning the thousand and one ways he was going to enact his revenge.

"Sorry." Edward's apology was so lacking in authenticity it was pathetic.

Brushing off his pants and hoping that no one had seen his spontaneous act of uncoolness (no thanks to Edward), Roy circumvented the unexpected obstacle, following Ed's footsteps as they entered another empty room. "Are you sure this is the right spot?"

There was a dry rustle as Edward laid out the map he had successfully weaselled from Xander. "Let's see here." Pencil scratched on paper, and Roy could imagine Edward drawing a geographically accurate copy of the Nationwide Transmutation Circle. "Yes, I was definitely right. Sloth's tunnel should pass very close by our location – I would say, roughly 300 metres east."

Roy swallowed down the urge to ask where the heck _was_ east. "You're _sure_ that the tunnel you found underneath the Sersan library was the one made by Sloth?"

" _Please_ , I've been down there plenty of times when I encountered that particular Homunculus at Briggs. Trust me, I can tell," stated Edward haughtily, slightly insulted that Mustang didn't trust his clearly superior deductive skills. "Besides, you were going to make a tunnel anyway, so why not try my idea?"

Roy sighed and crouched down on the dusty ground. "Don't say I never listen to you, Fullmetal. Show me how to do it."

"Fine, if I were you, I would first transmute a tilted shaft around 50 metres down then work my way from there."

"That's going to take all day."

"We _have_ all day, so…"

After a good half-hour of scientific bickering, Roy clapped his hands and touched them to the ground, transmuting a stone staircase leading down into the earth.

"I get the 'transmuting an underground tunnel to escape undetected' idea, but how are you planning to explain their disappearances when the military realizes that people don't simply vanish into thin air?" Edward was right at his heels as they carefully descended the half-completed tunnel. "Wall!"

At least this time Ed was prompt about his warning, and Roy stopped in his tracks, clapping again and pressing his hands to the dirt wall. It was a good thing that seeing wasn't really required when you were pretty much in the midst of performing alchemical trial-and-error. "Well, Fullmetal. I find that the best way for a person to disappear is to make everyone believe that he or she is dead."

The earth crumbled and reformed beneath his fingers. They strode further into the newly transmuted tunnel as Roy repeated the process.

Edward sniggered. "Your classic 'incinerate a corpse to ashes' trick, I presume? It really makes you wonder how many of them are _actual_ corpses."

"What sort of person would I be if I gave up my secrets so easily?" Roy smirked to himself. "Besides, we don't have the necessary materials to transmute a dummy cadaver, much less five of them."

"So your plan is?"

"Rourke already did half of my work for me, so all I have to do is finish the job," his voice reverberated eerily down the narrow space. "A few well-placed explosions and I can collapse the whole building – after all, the military won't be very keen on using its precious resources to dig up a bunch of buried 'corpses'."

"Ah, so then you can say whatever you want."

Roy nodded in confirmation. "Obviously it'll be a bit messier than usual and you'll have to direct me –"

"Or we could do this in a cleaner, neater, and definitely more effective way."

Roy turned around at the sound of a voice behind them, and he could hear Edward do the same.

"It's you again," said Edward, sounding annoyed.

Xandria ignored him. "I have a small personal collection of various explosives, detonators, timers – whatever you need to demolish a building. And yes, I know how to use them."

Roy blinked. "Do I even want to know where you got them from?"

Xandria laughed softly. "Since you asked so nicely – let's just say I used to work for the Red Cavalry. Perhaps you've heard of them?"

Roy felt an uncanny shiver streak down his spine.

"The Red _whatsis_?" asked Edward, his tone clearly making it known that he couldn't care less.

"The Red Cavalry. They are an Eastern extremist group which has caused the military more than its fair share of trouble," enlightened Roy, but his matter-of-fact voice was laced with disbelief. "They mysteriously disappeared a year and a half ago, along with an entire mansion's worth of military guests they were supposed to make a hit on."

"A South City military party," clarified Xandria, impressed. "You sure know your stuff, Flame Colonel."

"I've heard the rumours. I wasn't aware that there were still surviving members."

"Hmm, well, a woman never gives up her secrets so easily." There was a scuffle of feet as Xandria started back up the tunnel. "I'll get your explosives ready for you."

Roy cocked his head, slightly unnerved. "Fullmetal, go with her."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know about you, but _I_ sure don't trust someone like her with a stack of C-4."

Edward must have conceded his point because he immediately rushed out after the Ishvalan, cloak rustling.

Roy clicked his tongue in consideration before deciding to get back to work.

Footsteps sounded down the tunnel once again, heavy-set and firm.

"Fullmetal?" asked Roy uncertainly.

"I never thought you could care so deeply about someone."

Roy stiffened at the new voice, hand reflexively going to his pocket to grasp his ignition glove. "Excuse me?"

The leisurely footsteps stopped as Evan Blake presumably examined a section of the freshly constructed wall. "Despite all the hearsay, you _do_ care though, right? The Fullmetal brat."

Roy slid his hand into his glove, keeping his voice cautiously cool. "I'm not obligated to answer that question."

"It's nice to know that you're not completely heartless." Evan's voice sounded almost directly behind him, and Roy nearly yanked his hand out and snapped his fingers right then and there. "You know, it's funny."

Evan chuckled once – a dry, bitter sound.

"Because after all these years, I've finally found your weakness."

* * *

"Don't touch that!"

Edward tilted his head like a curious cat, golden eyes shining as he examined the collection of cylindrical-shaped metal contraptions packed in between rolls of bubble-wrap. "These look interesting."

Xandria slapped his hand away from the wooden crate. "Anti-personnel bounding mines, also nicknamed Bouncing Betties. One wrong step and they launch into the air before detonating, spraying deadly metal fragments and killing everything within 50 metres."

Ed immediately withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. "Where did you even get all this stuff?"

He waved a hand at the multitude of crates and cases stacked along the basement floor, filled with all manner of rifles, ammunition, explosives and apparently – bloody _landmines_.

"Military stockpiles are surprisingly easy to raid." Xandria picked up a small box, propping it against her hip. "Of course, these all used to belong to the Cavalry, but I'm sure no one would miss them."

Edward innocently bumped his elbow into another crate, the lid sliding off and onto the ground, bringing up a small puff of dust. "Whoops."

Before Xandria could discourage him, Ed leaned over and peered curiously into the crate, but was slightly disappointed to find that it was stacked with books.

"Bio-alchemy?" Edward asked incredulously as he blew dust off one of the covers. "I didn't know your cousin was interested in the field."

"Perhaps we could even exchange notes sometime, Edward Elric."

Edward swivelled around as said cousin descended the basement steps, hands stuck deep in his pockets.

Ed smiled viciously. "Apologies, but it's not my specialization."

"Why not?" Evan asked, slouching casually against the stairs. "I hear the Fullmetal Alchemist is a genius well-versed in all forms of alchemy."

"I stopped researching bio-alchemy a year ago." Edward bit the inside of his cheek, dropping the book back into its box as a deep and familiar ache sliced through his heart. "It brings back bad memories."

To his credit, Evan didn't press the matter further. He simply watched from the shadows, crimson eyes strangely contemplating.

Edward repressed a rogue shiver and straightened, turning to Xandria. "I'm supposed to help you set up those detonators."

Xandria patted the box in which she'd gathered all the necessary tools and materials. "I can do it myself, but be my guest."

Glad to have an excuse to make himself seem busy, Edward started up the steps, intentionally turning his head the other way as he passed the white-clad figure by the banister.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and Ed winced in surprise as something sharp tore through his shirt, puncturing skin.

Hand still firmly on his shoulder, Evan leaned over and breathed into his ear: "I think the colonel's looking for you."

Ed whirled around, slapping away Evan's passive-aggressive grip. "What did you –" He swiped at the small hole in the black fabric of his shirt – underneath it, a single droplet of blood welled up.

"Whoops, did I cut you by accident?" Evan opened his palm, showing him the innocent-looking penknife resting there. "Xandria, didn't you want this?"

He grinned down at the older girl.

Edward hesitated, torn between punching Evan in the face or sweeping condescendingly past him.

"Blondie, why don't you head up first?" said Xandria, eyes never leaving Evan's. "I'll be _right_ behind you."

"I'm not a 'blondie'." Edward snapped, but he was already climbing out of the dark basement, deciding to put down that weird incident with Evan as some kind of childish trick.

Xandria waited until he was out of earshot before locking gazes with her cousin. "What are you up to this time, Evan?"

"Me?" Evan exclaimed innocently, even as he carefully swiped Edward's blood from the blade with a clean piece of cloth. Xandria watched as he dropped it into a small glass jar and sealed it. "Why, nothing at all, dear cousin."

Xandria narrowed her eyes, but then sighed and shut them. "Whatever it is, I want no part in it."

Evan barred her path with an outstretched arm as she ascended the first step.

"Come on, Xandria. We both knew that father's plan was never going to work," drawled Evan. "Isn't that why you agreed to my…Plan B?"

Xandria scoffed contemptuously. "Face it, your ' _Plan B_ ' was as unrealistic as this one."

"So that's it?" The pure red eyes which met hers were a pair of icy shards. "You're giving up? Did we kill all those people for nothing?"

Xandria froze, but regained her composure just as fast. "Do what you wish, but I'm done with this life." Knocking away his arm, she brushed past him. "Back when there was still something to fight for, I would have agreed – but now, all we're fighting for is hatred."

Evan's face twisted in sudden anger, but before Xandria could even blink, the easy smile was back again. "I guess I'm on my own then."

Xandria paused on the top step. "Don't you think it's time for a change, Evan?"

Evan turned to meet her gaze, and for a moment, he seemed genuinely apologetic.

"People don't change, Xandria. And neither can I."

* * *

Life sometimes felt like a faraway dream.

This was one of those times – the trip to Central, getting caught up in this hell of a mess, the desert, the broken towns…

Edward almost expected himself to blink awake, staring up at the smudged ceiling of his room in Resembool.

Life would be all too kind to him if that happened though.

But all the same, this was it. The end of the dream. That instance right before he woke up, shook his head, and laughed off all the disquiet from before.

They'd finally hit Sloth's tunnel about an hour ago.

Edward now stood in the familiar subterranean space, holding a gas lamp above his head as he examined the neatly excavated ceiling. "Seems safe enough. This tunnel has been here literally since Amestris was founded, so I sincerely doubt that it would choose today to start crashing down."

Mustang ran one hand along the slightly curved wall, and if his eyes weren't a dull grey shade, Edward swore they would be shining with academic curiosity. "So _this_ is the Nationwide Transmutation Circle."

He paused and turned slowly in a full circle, eyes closed as if trying to detect a thrum of arcane energy or a residue of the presence of the Homunculi.

Edward snorted, stifling a laugh. "Don't get your hopes up. It's not nearly _that_ interesting."

A congregation of heavy footsteps sounded above them, and a head appeared in the wide, man-sized opening five feet above the ground (Edward had been slightly off about the estimated depth of the tunnel).

Xander dropped a rucksack onto the rusty metal tracks below, climbed down, and proceeded to help Asther.

Once the girl's feet were safely on the ground, she made a running start and, like a little white rabbit, launched herself at the colonel.

Her arms barely made a full circle around his waist. "Will I see you again, Mr. Roy?"

Mustang coughed awkwardly, and for a moment Edward could have sworn his face was red. "I don't know, Asther," he smiled gently. "But promise me you'll lead a good life after this."

Asther nodded jerkily. "You promised Papa that we could come home someday. Did you mean it?"

Mustang patted her head. "Of course I did. One day, you'll all be able to come back to Ishval – I can't promise much more than that, but I hope you'll be happy here."

Asther grinned widely and turned her head. She caught Edward's eye, and held a finger to her lips, tapping her mask and smiling secretively.

Ed nodded once and smiled back, mirroring her as he put a finger to his own lips. It wasn't like he was going to tell, anyway.

The doctor and his son were the next to enter the tunnel, each carrying a backpack filled with rations and personal belongings. Edward made sure to scowl darkly at Evan – he'd been very close to punching the Ishvalan's lights out several times today, but decided that attacking a hostile in technically-still-enemy-territory wasn't strictly the smartest thing to do.

Huh, who knew? Perhaps he had matured somewhat from his reckless, younger, alchemist self.

Evan simply raised an eyebrow and smirked.

Edward wasn't aware that smirks could be ominous, but this one felt like a vengeful ghost had just breathed down his collar. He wiped a hand across the back of his neck, trying to rub away the cold, clammy feeling.

 _What the…?_

He quickly shook off the uneasiness as Xandria dropped into the tunnel, shouldering a satchel. "Alright, I've set the timers." She nodded at Edward. "You have fifteen minutes to get out of here."

Ed handed her the gas lamp and grinned sharply. Enemy or not, this woman with her wicked skills had earned some of his respect. "I hope I'll never have to see you again."

"Likewise." Xandria replied curtly, swiping the lamp and beckoning to her brother. "Come on, people. No time to waste here dallying if we're to get to Sersa before the authorities catch wind of us."

"Remember to look for the secret entrance into the library," reminded Edward haughtily. Not that he cared.

Leonardo Blake picked up the briefcase he'd set down on the rocky ground and tipped his hat towards Edward. "For what's worth, I honestly didn't want to drag you and your brother into this."

Ed crossed his arms and glared, opting to say nothing and let his eyes do the talking.

Getting the message, Blake then turned to the colonel. "For both our sakes, I sincerely hope that the Restoration Program proves to be a success," he shook his head in amusement. "I never thought the day would come that I would put the fate of Ishval into Amestrian hands – especially hands like yours."

Mustang's expression was completely impassive. "I've said this once and I'll say it again – I always keep my word."

Blake shrugged and started down the tunnel. Asther reluctantly disengaged herself from Mustang and waved a cheerful goodbye to Edward.

Ed waved back, unsure whether he was glad he'll never have to deal with all this again, or whether he was simply just a little impressed by this ragtag collection of strange people.

The darkness seemed to swallow them like a dormant beast come alive – five backs of varying sizes, but all with the same shade of pure white hair.

This was it. They were gone.

Edward cleared his throat. "So, not to rush you or anything, but shouldn't we get out of here before – you know – the entire building _explodes_?"

Mustang seemed to snap out of it. A strange look of uneasiness stole over his face, but it was swiftly wiped clean and replaced with an amused smirk. "If you're so scared, then I guess we should get a move on."

Edward felt a familiar burst of anger boil into existence. "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SCARED?"

 _It felt as if everything could finally go back to normal._

It didn't take long for them to trudge back the way they'd came from, maintaining a steady pace that was just fast enough to make their time limit, but still rather leisurely as neither alchemist refused to admit how eager they were to get out of there.

Edward watched as Mustang marched straight up to the nearest wall, clapped, and transmuted a door in the stone. "I guess that's that…huh?"

Mustang made an uninterested grunt at the back of his throat that sounded like him agreeing.

He opened the doors, and the two Amestrians strode out into the cool evening.

Edward shielded his eyes against the burning sky, scorched deep crimson and orange by the setting sun.

Leading the way, Ed was careful to keep an eye on the colonel as the latter awkwardly picked his way over the scattered debris. Mustang was still very much against any hand-holding of the sort, and Edward (to save himself unnecessary embarrassment) had conceded to simply letting his former commanding officer follow him by sound.

They both stepped over a broken wall, and they were once again in the open desert.

Edward breathed in the dry, sun-baked air, already thinking of the souvenirs he was going to get Winry once they returned to Central City.

There was a rustle of clothing as Mustang brushed past him, continuing on towards the boundless desert sands.

Edward blinked and glanced around, surprised that Hawkeye hadn't sent anyone to watch the back of the building. He broke into a short sprint, automail clanking as he easily caught up with the colonel. "Hey, you…you sure you're okay?"

Mustang stopped in his tracks and turned, gaze cutting through Edward as if he wasn't there. That blank stare – Ed still hadn't gotten used to it. "We should wait for the explosives to go off, just to make our 'barely managed to escape with our lives' act more believable."

Edward watched him closely. "You're avoiding the question."

Mustang ran a thumb over his bottom lip tentatively, and for a moment he looked…confused. "It's nothing."

Edward cocked his head. "It feels good, doesn't it? To finally have acknowledgement?" He hesitated, trying to organize his thoughts into words. "It's like…you finally have permission, or approval, to keep trying to right the wrongs you did."

When Mustang didn't respond, Edward simply shrugged, a little miffed that his piece of wisdom was being completely disregarded. "I'm just saying, that was how I felt like with Al – when he told me that yes, he was willing to search for the Philosopher's Stone with me. A fool's quest, but he was willing to let me make it up to him, or _try_ to, at least."

He couldn't help but start at a muffled _BOOM!_ which echoed across the golden sands. The squat, plain-looking building which they'd just exited shuddered once, as if desperately clinging onto survival, before caving in and completely collapsing as its core structures were destroyed in a series of quick-fire detonations.

Edward coughed and swiped at the cloud of dust which billowed over them before making a ridiculous whooping sound of glee: " _Whoo!_ That was awesome!"

Mustang smirked at his antics. "Only _you_ could watch such destruction and feel excited about it."

He sighed deeply.

"And I guess you were right, about me feeling better."

Edward tilted his head, bending backwards slightly to grin at the colonel. The grin dropped as a sudden thought struck him. "Then you don't have to punish yourself anymore."

Mustang's smirk faded and he turned away. "Your brother is probably worried about you. We should let them know that we're okay."

Edward clenched his jaw. "Stop avoiding the subject."

"I'm not _avoiding_ anything," returned Mustang crisply as he made a full turn and strode off – did he even _know_ where he was going? "Especially since I have no idea what you're insinuating."

Edward fisted his hands. "The automail surgery."

Mustang didn't stop, but his brisk pace slowed imperceptibly. "What?"

"The surgery. The painful rehabilitation after. Becoming a State Alchemist even though I knew it meant becoming a dog of a military. Some people call it sacrifice – Alphonse calls it brotherhood." Edward swallowed, but these words had to be said if he was to be persuaded. "But I always knew what they really were: _punishment._ Self-inflicted justice. Penance for having paid the lesser price even though it was all _my_ fault. And as twisted as it may sound, all that pain did make me feel better."

Mustang stopped. They had been heading back towards the now-decimated building at an angle, and Edward was convinced that a group of familiar faces would round the corner at any moment and destroy his chances of pushing this conversation.

 _Hell, why did he even care?_

But it had to be said.

The colonel shook his head and started walking again. Edward trailed behind, hesitant to get too close even as he kept talking: "You don't have to do it anymore! You don't have to feel like living in darkness is the only way to atone for your wrong-doings. Because while it might make you feel better, all it's doing is holding you back!"

It was then that Edward realized something.

The colonel…The Flame Alchemist – he'd always _been_ living in darkness.

Long before he'd lost his sight, and even long before Edward had met him.

His world had always been dark.

Edward's temper flared, and he lunged, hand grabbing Mustang's shoulder. "Just stop and _listen_ to me!"

Mustang flung his hand away. "Fullmetal –"

Light flared beneath them when Mustang took his next step.

Edward automatically pulled away, eyes wide. The colonel froze, having felt the thrum of energy beneath his feet.

The Fullmetal Alchemist could only gape in horror at the large transmutation circle which had been carefully sketched into the sand. Its intricate lines and symbols were glowing with a dull white light, having being activated by their accidental stumble across it.

And Mustang had one foot within its boundaries.

* * *

"Do. Not. Move."

Edward felt his breath catch in his throat, waiting for the transmutation circle to turn them into talking dogs, or explode, or _something_.

The air felt like a tangible substance, pressing down on his shoulders as one second ticked by, then another.

The circle – a heck of a monster which covered a wide area of at least 50 metres – simply shimmered once, and faded back into the sand.

Mustang stood so still that it would have been nigh impossible to tell him apart from a marble statue. "I just stepped on a transmutation circle, didn't I?"

Edward swallowed nervously as he proceeded to approach its circumference, eyes darting at each carefully drawn alchemical symbol as he tried to decipher the circle's overall function. "That's an amazing guess."

"I try." Mustang experimentally shifted his foot back.

"Don't! We don't know what it does or what'll activate it yet!"

"If it was going to do something, I think it would have done it by now." Regardless, Mustang planted his foot firmly back down on the sand.

Edward knelt down to examine the circle in more detail, the cogs in his brain turning furiously as he located symbols for combustion, rapid compression, chemical transmutation…

He paused as his gaze skimmed over a rune he was unfamiliar with, but had seen several times during his time in Shou Tucker's archive.

 _Bio-alchemy._

He gritted his teeth.

 _Of course, who else would it be?_

"Evan Blake, that miserable bastard." Edward growled viciously – oh when he next crossed paths with him, all bets were off.

"Fullmetal, maybe you should get Alphonse." Mustang turned around futilely, listening for the distant shouts of his men or Edward's younger brother.

"We don't have time for that." Ed snapped, rubbing his forehead as his eyes darted from one component of the circle to another – it seemed simple enough, but hopelessly complex at the same time. "They'll probably search the collapsed building first, and they can't hear us from all the way over here."

 _What the hell was the circle_ for _?_

"Then _go get him_."

"I'm not leaving you in case this thing suddenly decides to reactivate." Edward pressed his fingers to the space in between his eyebrows, willing himself to think faster.

The answer clicked into place like the final piece of an intricate puzzle.

That was it – an explosion.

This thing was rigged to produce a vast amount of energy in a short amount of time, instantly compressed to create a small, compact blast.

But why? The transmutation circle was large enough to indicate that it was a waiting trap for _them_ , and they would have walked into it on their way out or around the building. However, he doubted that they would have been seriously injured by the resulting transmutation unless they had been standing in the very middle of the circle.

Who was the actual target? The colonel, himself, or both of them at once?

"Fullmetal, how do you expect to do anything without your alchemy?" insisted Mustang, and his words felt like direct punches to Edward's stomach.

"I don't need my alchemy to disable a transmutation circle!" Edward bit back irately.

The sinking sun blazed gold as it sunk towards the horizon. Its dying light glinted off a metallic object partially buried in the sand, smack centre of the transmutation circle.

Edward had to squint to make out the barely visible top of the cylindrical shape, but when he recognized it, his stomach immediately hit the ground.

It made sense now.

 _A detonator._

The circle wasn't rigged to kill them, only to set off the thing that _would_.

Ingenious. Considering that Evan didn't have much time to bury multiple mines, using a transmutation circle would be a surer way of making sure they would stumble into this cruel little trap of his.

"It's a detonator," cursed Edward loudly. "It's a detonator intended to set off a landmine. That girl called it – a Bouncing Veronica?"

Mustang visibly stiffened. "A Bouncing Betty?"

"The hell, it doesn't matter." Edward narrowed his eyes to squint further. There was something else close to the middle of the circle, laid over one of the symbols – a bloodstained…cloth?

"Fullmetal. Get away from that thing. _Now._ "

Ed almost felt like laughing hysterically to himself. "I don't take orders from you anymore."

He still couldn't figure out how the circle was triggered – though he suspected that the bio-alchemy components had something to do with that. But he knew what it did, and he knew how to stop it.

All he had to do was tweak this symbol here…and the delicately balanced equation which governed the transmutation would collapse like an unstable tower of building blocks.

"Fullmetal, you're messing with something you don't fully understand!" shouted Mustang, seriously pissed now. He tensed as if to take a step towards Edward, but then decided against it and stayed put instead.

"Can't you just _trust_ me for once?" Edward yelled back.

He hadn't meant to sound so hurt, but he was, and why couldn't Colonel Bastard treat him like an adult instead of a child?

Mustang fell silent, his face an indecipherable mask. Slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, he draped a hand over his eyes and sighed. "Make it quick," he paused, and said meaningfully, "I trust you."

Edward swallowed down the lump lodged in his throat and turned back to his work, hand hovering over the circle as he double and triple-checked what he had to do to disable the transmutation.

If he hadn't been so focused on his task, Ed may have noticed the colonel's frown as he pondered over the events of that day, furiously connecting the dots.

He might have also noticed the moment the frown morphed into a horrified look of realization, and the rustle of shoes slipping on sand as Mustang started towards him, certain that movement wouldn't cause the circle to activate.

Because something else was the trigger.

"Fullmetal, don't touch –"

If he'd known the thoughts whirling through the colonel's head, Edward would never have ignored his warning and laid his hand on the circle, moving to rub off an alchemical symbol he knew would cause the transmutation to fail.

But the moment his fingers made contact with sand, the circle instantly lit up like a Christmas tree.

Light spilled from every outline, blazing and crackling with energy.

Edward stumbled back with surprise at the sudden reaction.

But –

Wha –

 _What went wrong?_

" _Edward!_ "

The last thing he remembered was a heavy hand on his shoulder, and an unexpected weight forcing him to topple over, his face slamming into the gritty sand.

 _Snap!_

Fire sparked into existence before his eyes just as the shock wave struck him. It felt like the earth had been ripped apart.

He tumbled and fell as the world spun – sky, desert, sky, light.

And then he saw nothing at all.

* * *

Riza Hawkeye didn't really believe in bad feelings.

She believed in intuition, yes – that prickle of danger stroking its claws down the back of your neck when an unseen gun was pointed at your heart; or a strange twitch in your eye and a quick turn of your head when someone was observing you from the shadows. Intuition had kept her alive through countless battlefields, and would continue to do so for countless more.

But when the column of flames roared to life above their heads, mere minutes after the building had collapsed, Riza felt her stomach instantly twist and knot and squeeze.

She didn't know if it was intuition or a bad feeling, but for a brief moment she felt like crumpling to the sand and staying there.

The feeling was foreign enough that she had to search her mind to find the right word for it.

 _Dread._

The fire flickered across the golden irises of Alphonse – the young alchemist's face was pale and drawn, as it had been since he'd found out his brother had left without him and had thrown one of the first temper-fuelled outbursts Riza had ever known of the mellower Elric.

His colourless lips tightened into a nearly invisible line, and Riza recognized the emotion which flashed across his face.

 _Dread._

All those present seemed frozen as they stared at the fiery sky – Havoc, Breda, Fuery, Falman, and the two men from Briggs Miles had left behind. The task of shifting through the fallen debris was forgotten as their suspicion that the people they were searching for weren't buried underneath was instantaneously confirmed.

She swallowed and swivelled around, but when she addressed her men, her eyes were hard and her tone was firm:

"Let's go!"

* * *

 _You know, it's funny._

The world spluttered and crackled like a radio tuned to the wrong channel.

 _Because after all these years, I've finally found your weakness._

He cracked open his eyes and took a breath.

The air spluttered into his lungs like a broken air conditioning unit, the simple act of inhaling sending a sharp pain through his chest. The coppery tang of blood and the grittiness of sand filled his mouth, and he resisted the urge to try and spit it out.

The world flickered again, a black and white movie stuck in fast-forward. For a brief moment the sun was back and his vision wasn't dark. His ears rang with the deadening silence from the aftermath of the landmine blast, but beyond it people screamed and gunfire crackled.

But he was ready for it this time, and he shook the encroaching memories away, knowing them to be nothing more than ghosts from his past. Everything was still fuzzy, but a critical, infinitely urgent thought knocked frantically at the door of his mind, urging him to remember, remember, _remember_.

Something important. Something – someone –

The name struck him like a knife through the heart.

 _Edward._

He coughed weakly and hoisted himself up with his arms. His right leg screamed and nearly collapsed beneath him, but he barely noticed it through the insistent thrumming of that name in his head.

 _EdwardEdwardEdward._

 _Oh god if anything happened to him –_

His entire body ached, but he somehow managed to get up into a half-crouch and scream: "Fullmetal!"

The silence echoed back at him from the black haze, and he cursed – cursed himself for being so foolish, for ever letting his young subordinate return to aid him, for not being able to _see_ , damn it.

He should have stayed put. He and Al should have stayed in Resembool and never looked back.

"Edward!" he shouted, stumbling forward aimlessly. All the pretence, all the masks had been thrown out the window right on the heels of that explosion, and now all that was left was raw and burning terror. "Edward, where are you!?"

He'd done it right, hadn't he? Just as he had been taught in the academy, he'd pushed Edward to the ground to avoid the worse of the lethal projectile from the bounding mine, and used fire to try and incinerate the rest.

It had to be enough. It had to be…

A soft groan and a muffled cough, somewhere close by.

But he heard it.

He wasn't quite sure how he made it with what was probably a broken leg, but half-limping, half-stumbling over the sand, his hands first felt nothing, but then closed around the warm shape of a shoulder.

The person beneath him coughed again and struggled to sit up, his voice shaky but still as firm and cocky as ever. "C – Colonel?"

"Gods, Fullmetal." The relief was like learning how to breathe again, a burst of warmth flooding his veins and driving away the fear.

Suddenly, it was all too much – the stress from being in Ishval, and the events leading up to that one, climatic detonation which had shaken him right down to his very foundation. He clasped his hands around Edward's back and pulled the boy close to him.

He was probably going to regret this later, but for now, all he cared about was making sure his subordinate was truly safe. "Are you okay?"

"Ouch! I think my arm is broken." Edward sniffed once in a rather scornful manner, but he didn't immediately pull away. The younger boy's trembling breaths brushed against his neck, a reminder that he was indisputably _alive_. "I – I'm fine, alright? What's the matter with you?"

He sighed once and slowly detached himself from Edward. He shut his eyes, suddenly unfathomably tired.

"Colonel?" Edward's voice, but now it sounded impossibly far away. " _Colonel?_ "

Why was Edward repeating his name? Edward was okay, wasn't he? And everything was going to be just fine.

"Colonel!" It was unmistakable now – the rising panic in Edward's voice. "Oh god, you're – you're bleeding!"

 _The pain from before._ He touched a hand to his stomach, more out of curiosity than out of any hazy sense of urgency. The fabric of his jacket had been ripped clean open, and wetness oozed out in between his fingers.

"Oh, ouch." He felt so tired.

Drifting off into the darkness, he vaguely felt his body pitch forward and slam into someone's shoulder.

"Colonel!"

It was as if the final lights had been switched off in the theatre, and the film began to rewind.

* * *

 _Red._

In that single moment, he couldn't remember another time his world had consisted of a different colour.

Red sky. Red sun. Red sand. The red of his cloak, lying limp and torn across his shoulders.

The red of blood, seeping in between the gaps of his fingers.

He choked down a sob when it wouldn't stop flowing. _Red, red, red._

"You bastard. You _fucker_. You were fine just a minute ago, so get _up_."

He didn't get up. Just lay there, limp and lifeless on the sand – eyes closed, hair falling over his eyelids. Like a puppet, Edward realized.

A puppet with its strings cut.

Edward's right arm hung loose and broken at his side, and he swore repeatedly when his left hand wasn't enough to staunch the crimson flow. Ripping his cloak from his shoulders, he awkwardly bundled it into a ball and pressed it over the worse of the colonel's injuries.

 _What do I do?_

 _Someone tell me what to do!_

Help. That's it. Without his alchemy, he couldn't do anything, so he had to call for help.

"WE'RE OVER HERE!" Edward yelled, his voice echoing across the boundless sands and bouncing off the skeletal carcass of the ruined building. "WE NEED HELP! OVER HERE!"

But even the Fullmetal Alchemist's voice eventually failed him, the repetitive words too shaky and unsteady on his tongue that he did not trust himself to speak them.

In the brief moment of silence, a small groan drew Edward's attention back to the ground – soft and almost impossibly tiny, the sound was merely a ghost of its owner's former self.

Mustang's eyes were half-open as he stared dimly at the sky. "Ed…ward?"

Edward snorted with as much gusto as he could muster, but the condescending sound dwindled into nothingness. "You dumbass. You almost never call me Edward."

"Don't get cocky now, I just…slipped." Mustang chuckled softly through shallow, rapid breaths. "Is it…is it really bad?"

Edward didn't want to look, but his eyes reflexively glanced down at the bloodstained fabric crumpled underneath his hand. Part of him was grateful that he couldn't see it anymore – they both had various cuts and scrapes inflicted by various high-velocity shrapnel, but a large, particularly nasty piece of metal had torn through the colonel's stomach and upper torso. He could still see the twisted shard embedded deeply next to his ribcage, precariously close to the heart.

He knew enough about human anatomy to realize that such heavy bleeding could only mean that a major artery had been severed.

"It's just a goddamn scratch." Ed swallowed thickly. "Stop being such a wuss about it."

Mustang laughed some more. "If there's…anyone who's being…a wuss here, it's probably you."

That was when Edward realized his voice and his hands had been trembling ever so slightly. He clamped his mouth shut, willing the shakiness to go away.

"Brother?"

Ed whipped his head up so fast his neck screeched in protest.

His little brother – dear, wonderful Alphonse – was staring at him with shock in his wide golden eyes, a hand clasped over his mouth. Edward could only wonder at what the scene before him even looked like: Ed peppered with bruises, the colonel lying on his back, blood seeping slowly into the ochre sand.

Edward still didn't quite trust himself to say another word, but he suddenly felt the bizarre urge to laugh and reassure his brother that everything was okay. Perhaps crack a silly joke, like ' _this is not what it looks like_ '.

But all his bravado simply collapsed before he could rebuild it, and when he opened his mouth, only a single word filtered through:

" _Al._ "

Then his voice broke, and he didn't care that the salt stinging his eyes were tears anymore.

* * *

 **Throughout his entire life, his older brother had been a shining beacon of light – stronger, braver, smarter.**

 **He always knew what to do.**

 **But when he gazed up at Alphonse with those brilliant molten eyes which mirrored his own, Al was horrified to discover that right now, that wasn't the case.**

" _Al."_

 **He didn't know what to do either.**

 **Al knelt on the sand next to Edward, raising his hands but hesitating, as if he wasn't sure what he should do with them. "Brother, what – tell me how I can help."**

 **He could see Edward was struggling, frantically searching for a way to save his colonel –** _ **their**_ **colonel. "I – I don't – You learnt Eastern Alkahestry from May Chang, didn't you? Can't you use that?"**

 **Alphonse rubbed his forehead. "She wasn't with me** _ **that**_ **long. I don't know how to fix anything larger than a paper cut."**

 **If he'd just studied harder, learnt more…**

 **But while alkahestry was out of the question, alchemy wasn't. The alchemy he'd retained but his brother had lost.**

 **He could fix this.**

 **Alphonse clapped his hands together, closing his eyes as the beginning symbols for a biological transmutation floated to the surface beneath his eyelids. But for damage this extensive…some sort of price would have to be paid for the equation to balance.**

 **But a human life – that was priceless, wasn't it?**

 **His concentration shattered at the feeling of gloved fingers around his wrist.**

" **Alphonse, don't."**

 **Al opened his eyes, staring down at the colonel even as he smiled weakly and shook his head. "Equivalent Exchange…a price…" His pulse fluttered like a butterfly's wings – thready and faint against Al's skin. "It's not…worth it."**

 _ **Of course it's worth it!**_ **In one of those rare moments he hardly ever experienced, Alphonse felt something audibly snap behind his eyes. "I'm trying to save your life, asshole!" And before he could stop to feel horrified at the rude swearword, Al tried to plough on, but he'd forgotten what he was going to say. "So just…let me…"**

 **He trailed off as a hand touched his shoulder. The younger Elric looked up to see Second Lieutenant Havoc standing over him.**

 **For once, Havoc didn't have a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He said nothing, but the look in his sky blue eyes was more than enough.**

 **He shook his head, and Alphonse felt his hands fall from where they'd been tightly clasped together in front of his chest as if in prayer. The transmutation broke, the incomplete pieces blown away like autumn leaves in an invisible breeze.**

 **Alphonse pressed his hands to his face instead, folding himself down small enough that his forehead brushed the sand.**

 **He could not remember the last time – armour or boy – that he'd cried.**

 _Edward couldn't understand why no one was doing anything._

" _Al? Alphonse?"_

 _Alphonse was crumpled in over himself, silent and still. He didn't answer Edward's pleas._

 _Someone do_ something _!_

" _We have – we have to get him to a hospital. Maybe –"_

 _The stumbling words found pause as a hand touched his shoulder. The older Elric looked up to see Second Lieutenant Breda standing over him._

 _It was rare to see Breda look so grave, or so tender, but his voice was gentle even as he shook his head._

" _The closest medical facility is more than an hour away," he said softly, like a father explaining something wholly new to a small child. His eyes dropped down to the sand, to the vast amount of blood which had already soaked the ground dark red even with Edward's efforts. "It's too late."_

 _Edward had never expected those words to come out of Breda's mouth, but there it was, and he'd said it._

 _He whirled around, tearing away from the second lieutenant in his raging fury. "What do you mean_ 'it's too late' _? We won't know until we try, right? SO WHY WON'T YOU HELP US?"_

 _His shouts died away in the silence that followed, and Edward realized with cold certainty that the silence – the nothingness –_ was _his answer._

 _He sought out Falman, but the warrant officer had his head turned away so he couldn't see his face. Fuery didn't even notice Ed's pleading stare, too absorbed was he as he sobbed quietly behind Falman. Both Breda and Havoc were dead-eyed and dry-cheeked, opting to avert their eyes from his gaze. Even the two soldiers from Briggs – people whom Ed was familiar with – simply inclined their heads slightly, used to death and grief on the field._

 _Why?_

 _But he knew why – they were giving him his final moments._

 _Edward didn't_ want _him to have his freaking peaceful last moments._

 _All he wanted was for Colonel Bastard to still_ be _there tomorrow morning, with a familiar smirk on his face and a roguish glint in his eyes as he called Edward a pipsqueak and a runt._

 **All he wanted was for everyone to have their happy ending like they had, for everything to go back to the way they once were.**

"…lieutenant?" The soft voice tore both brothers' eyes towards its source.

There was Lieutenant Hawkeye, kneeling in the sand as she touched a hand to the colonel's pale face. Her features were shrouded in the deepening shadows of twilight – a blessing, as neither Elric felt like they could bear seeing her expression.

"I'm here, sir."

 _ **But they couldn't have that, could they?**_

 _ **This was how it ended.**_

* * *

 _I can't afford to die here._

Roy knew of many soldiers – himself included – who repeated that exact same mantra to themselves throughout every last battlefield and warzone.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

It usually worked for him.

He'd often wondered where the breaking point was. He'd been in many situations where he was damaged and wounded but still unwilling to give it all up.

Perhaps what was so different about this one was…what was the word? Motivation? Urge? Reason?

 _Reason._ There was no reason for him to get back up. Edward was safe, the people he cared for were safe, and for the moment all his dreams and ambitions were merely distant shadows at the back of his mind.

A familiar and comforting presence loomed over him, and he called out, breath waning. "…lieutenant?"

Her hand held the side of his face, and he leaned into the warmth of her touch.

"I'm here, sir."

A single droplet of liquid splashed down on his cheek, and he blinked.

"Is it raining, lieutenant?"

Her voice was slightly amused when she answered. "Yes, I guess it is."

"Figures. I always have bad luck…when it…rains."

He reached out a hand, feeling his fingers touch her cheek. There were so many things he still wanted to say: he wanted to tell his men that it was an honour working with them; to tell Edward that he was in fact, growing taller; to tell Alphonse that he looked great in his original human form.

He wanted to tell her…

But through the blurry haze of exhaustion and pain, all he managed to say was: "I'm sorry."

So, so tired.

It felt like he'd been skating on a thin film of ice, but now the surface had broken under his weight.

He plunged under into the icy darkness. Closing his eyes against the cold, for once, he stopped fighting and let himself…sink.

 _I'm sorry._

 _I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise._

* * *

 **A/N: Sloth's tunnel appears at the beginning of Chapter 7 if anyone's curious.  
**


	16. Chapter 15 - Hawk

**Author's Note:  
**

 **Hawkeye fans unite! *grin***

 **I won't lie, I've been looking forward to this (relatively?) fluffy chapter about who I'd admit is my favourite character. This chapter took me a full two weeks to write, rewrite, and edit, and because it can be read as a series of ultra-short one-shots you could make your way slowly through it throughout the rest of this week (you'll see what I mean).**

 **This was written purely because I was indulging myself and because there was no other way to smoothly link _that_ chapter (Promise) to the rest of the story. So feel free to skip the flashback sequences and read the ending. The next chapter will be up next week. **

**Uh...please forgive me if I don't reply to some reviews this week, because...well...I honestly have no clue how to respond to some of them without maintaining the element of suspense (or I seriously just have no clue).**

 **But once again, thank you so much for all the amazing support so far (I'm shocked, to say the least)! And please leave a review/follow/favourite if this was worth your time! :)**

 **HAPPY NEW YEAR 2018!**

Reply to Guest: I'm sorry to hear that this wasn't really what you were looking for. :) Al will always be a sweetheart to me, so maybe I'll write something about him in the future. Thanks for the praise though!

Reply to dvltgr: As always, THANK YOU! Reading your reviews always brings a smile to my face.

Reply to Mixmax300: Hi there and welcome back! XD Thanks for the awesome review, there's just a few chapters to go so I'm giving it my best shot!

Reply to emmahoshi: Welcome back to you too! (Nah, that wasn't late at all, I'm always glad when you leave me a review). You'll excuse me if I have no comment for everything else ;P.

Reply to Red: Wow! First off, thanks for the praise, and a bigger thank you for letting me know how I can better this. (I'd admit, a lot of things in this fic aren't very watertight because some of them *cough, OCs, cough* were added last minute). I'm wincing at the detail with Ed's age though, I really should have been more careful so I'll fix that. I definitely have to go back and review my portrayal of the OCs, so a million thanks for the feedback! That was awesomely helpful!

Reply to sometimeschill: Thank you so much! I honestly believe that a writer's greatest wish is to make their readers feel something, so I'm super glad! ;) **  
**

* * *

 _Chapter 15 – Hawk_

 _Hypovolemic shock._

It seemed to her that time had come to a standstill. The world had fallen silent, so silent.

 _Cause: Significant and sudden blood or fluid loss._

She brushed a stray strand of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. His breaths were rapidly weakening, and he didn't respond to her touch. She wondered if this was all just a dream.

 _Symptoms: pale skin, shallow breathing, rapid heart rate, loss of consciousness._

It felt like she'd been skating on a thin film of ice, but now the surface had broken under her weight. She plunged under into the icy darkness, feeling the numbing pain of cold seep into her bones.

She felt nothing, but a single, simple question manifested at the forefront of her mind:

 _What now?_

She would later realize that the silence in her ears was merely her own brain blocking out the rest of the world, which explained why she hadn't heard the far-off screech of tyres, the patter of footsteps, urgent calls replied with more urgent answers.

Warmth touched her shoulder, bringing her out of her frozen state. She took a breath and looked up.

The man standing there was bizarre to her eyes – white hair and red irises, his kind should loath them both. Why was he here? Why did he care?

Her lips parted, uttering his name before her memory could fully recall it. "Scar."

The Ishvalan once-priest stared down at her severely, his eyes the colour of dark garnet in the failing light.

His mouth moved to form words, words which took her a moment to comprehend.

His deep voice eventually filtered through the sluggish haze of her mind, and the silence shattered.

"I can save him."

* * *

 _When she next came to, she was standing in emptiness._

Where am I?

 _On all sides, there was only never-ending blackness. She raised her arms, surprised that she could still see them in such darkness._

 _Both her palms and uniform were stained scarlet. She closed her eyes, trying to remember whose blood was on her hands._

 _No, she couldn't remember…_

 _Ah, it didn't matter anyway._

 _Somewhere in the distance, a light glimmered. She stretched out a hand towards it, and all of a sudden she was standing by a turquoise creek._

 _The water was clear as crystal, the sun hot as its rays beat down on her uncovered head. Sitting on the riverbank, a young girl with golden locks was fishing serenely, a makeshift rod made of a branch and a piece of twine gripped in her hands._

 _The grass whispered beneath her boots as she approached the girl. "Who are you?" Riza's voice sounded strangely disembodied in this not-place._

" _Have you forgotten already?" The girl tilted her head, and she found herself staring into a pair cool amber depths._

" _Ri–za?"_

 _The girl had stretched out the '_ Ri' _in between her teeth, tone playful. "But I guess that's unavoidable. After all, you…" The girl pointed at Riza's bloody uniform, pursing her lips in thought before directing the finger at herself. "No,_ I… _have changed too much."_

 _First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye realized who this girl was._

" _Yes, I have." Present-Riza agreed._

" _That's a lot of blood on your hands. Whose is it?" asked Past-Riza, absentmindedly swinging her fishing line back and forth through the water._

" _I can't…remember."_

" _Hmm, I guess that couldn't be avoided either. You've killed so many people, Riza. It's natural to forget."_

 _Present-Riza clenched her hands, feeling her throat tighten. "I just wanted to protect my country, to protect Flame Alchemy –" she stopped then, suddenly unable to go any further._

 _To protect_ him.

" _Protect?" The younger version of herself smiled dryly. "How amusing. All your life you've called yourself a protector, and yet when he needed you the most, you stood by and let his sight be taken."_

 _Riza's throat constricted further, nearly strangling her. She couldn't bear to look into those sherry eyes which reflected her own, so she stared out at the water instead, watching its unearthly mirror-like surface._

" _And to what end?" Past-Riza kept talking, using that nonchalant tone which had often earned her the brand of being cold and impassive. "In the end, you let him die in your arms…And still you could do nothing."_

 _The lieutenant didn't respond. The line bobbed, but when Past-Riza reeled it in, the hook was empty._

" _Empty wishes, meaningless hope." Past-Riza frowned at her hook and lowered it back into the water. Present-Riza had to resist the urge to tell her that she couldn't expect to catch anything without bait. "Do you regret it? The past?"_

" _The past?"_

" _If you'd never left your home, never joined the military…" The young girl cocked her head. "No, forget that. If you'd never even_ met _him… Perhaps you could've saved yourself a lot of pain."_

" _The past is already over," intoned Present-Riza. "There's no point in thinking about it."_

" _But if there's no point in reminiscing about the past, then why bother having memories at all?" Past-Riza cocked her head, seeming lost in her own thoughts. "You were happy, weren't you? All those summers ago."_

" _I guess I was…happy." Present-Riza mumbled, shutting her eyes._

Come to think of it, she was always just an ordinary girl.

But that summer, her world began to change.

* * *

 _ **1898, Summer**_

At first glance, the boy with the bright blue cap pulled down low over his eyes didn't strike the villagers as particularly interesting.

Until the more inquisitive (nosy) locals took a closer look and realized that his button-down shirt and cargo pants were of a quality so fine he could only be a city-dweller; and that the strange, unfamiliar shape of his features could only mean he was a foreigner, yet one who spoke perfect Amestrian English with the accent all thrown in.

Then they did a double take when he would stop, wipe the sweat off his brow, and ask them directions to an address everyone in the small western village knew well but avoided as a general rule of the thumb.

After an hour of dragging his luggage down the dirt road, wheels clacking violently on its uneven surface, the boy pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket, checked the number painted on the mailbox, and did a double take of his own.

The mansion standing alone on the empty country lane seemed to loom over him like a slumbering beast. Even in the glaring sunlight, it was a desolate and depressing structure, its empty windows gaping black maws which seemed to follow his every move.

First impression?

 _This looks like a frickin' ghost house._

He swallowed and firmly decided that he would _not_ let his long and tiring trip go to waste.

The wheels of his bag squealed at the change of pace as he pushed open the gate and strode cautiously down the winding pathway. A wooden sign announced this to be ' **PRIVATE PROPERTY** ' in big red words, then cheerfully went on to describe what would happen to trespassers should they be caught on the premises.

He swallowed a second time, and the thirteen-year-old scolded himself for being a bunch of nerves.

The large wooden door beyond the porch had no visible doorbell, so he rapped his knuckles smartly on its worn surface instead.

The sound of running water from the other side of the house ceased. He was just wondering if he regretted his decision to come looking for the great alchemist Berthold Hawkeye when the door opened.

A girl stepped out, flaxen hair billowing like a cloud of blooming marigolds.

Her sudden presence was so wholly unexpected that his breath caught in his throat, and the speech he'd been practicing on the train was instantly forgotten.

She was very different from all the other girls he'd met in Central, opting to don a practical pair of faded work jeans instead of the currently trending long lacy skirts. She crossed her arms, regarding him coolly with sharp amber eyes.

The boy realized she was waiting for him to state his business.

"Excuse me miss," he asked politely, flashing her his most charming smile. "Is this the Hawkeye residence?"

The girl perched a hand on her hip, most definitely uncharmed.

"Are you here to fix the roof?"

 _Now_ that _was wholly unexpected._

* * *

First impression?

 _Loaded city brat._

Then again, what had she expected of her father's newest in a long and tiresome line of apprentices?

The irony was not lost on her that Berthold Hawkeye had a knack for attracting apprentices who were young, naïve, well-to-do, or all of the above. This in itself was not at all strange, as her father was famed throughout Amestris for his genius and brilliant alchemical research.

No, the irony came when his 'apprentices' were often disappointed or outright revolted by their pitiable and humble abode, and were even more frustrated when they found out that their master was a difficult, hard, and sometimes frightening man with a tongue much sharper than his wit.

None of them had ever lasted very long.

Then again, none of them had ever agreed to fix her roof.

The girl rubbed her hands together, wincing as the sensitive skin, already chapped from doing laundry with gritty soap, tore and split. She planted them on her hips instead as she watched the boy clamber onto the roof using a ladder he'd transmuted from a nearby tree.

The girl wasn't particularly known for her sense of humour, but she found it slightly amusing he'd actually gone along with what had been nothing but a passing joke at his expense.

But if she got the leak fixed for free, then why not?

"Is this cracked tile the problem?" His voice carried down to her from where he was perched on the roof like a cat, every word rich with the colourful tones of Central City.

She was about to shout up an answer when a particularly strong gust of wind whipped her hair into her face.

The exact same wind snatched his cap from his head, and he had to brace himself to keep from toppling off. The girl reached up and caught it in between her fingers.

"Thanks!" she looked up to see him grinning down at her, flashing her a thumbs-up even as he struggled to keep his now-visible hair from blowing into his eyes.

 _Black._ Like his eyes, his hair was a very alarming shade of pure obsidian black – in the far western reaches, this was rarer than a sweltering day in winter. The strands glimmered in the sun like a crow's glossy feathers, and she had to blink to catch her bearings. "You're welcome. And that tile should be the problem, thank you."

He flashed a second thumbs-up before his head disappeared over the edge of the roof. Vaguely, she could hear the soft scratching of chalk, and a subsequent flare of blue light.

"Riza, why can I hear footsteps from my ceiling?"

She spun around, reflexively hiding the cap behind her back. "Father."

Despite the fearsome rumours which caused most of their neighbours to give him a wide berth, Berthold Hawkeye was in fact a frail-looking man who seemed almost transparent in the sunshine. He looked like a dead man walking – all colourless hair and pallid skin. "Which part of 'I am not to be disturbed' did you not understand?"

Riza twisted her fingers and dropped her eyes to the ground. "But father –"

"Mr. Hawkeye, is that you?" A young voice from above startled them both into glancing up.

Before Riza could explain, Berthold's deaden eyes flared with unexpected fire at the sight of an unfamiliar silhouette climbing off his roof. " _What the hell are you doing on my roof, boy?_ "

Riza had very rarely heard her father raise his voice, so she was quite taken aback. The young alchemist on said roof seemed even more taken aback by his angry tone – which was rather unfortunate for him, considering that he was balanced precariously on the top rung of his ladder.

"Get off right this instance!"

"I'm sorry, si –" In his anxiety, his foot missed the next step and he half-slipped, the entire ladder swinging backwards from the wall.

Riza instantly sprang into action, diving and gripping the bottom of the ladder to steady it.

Meanwhile, the dark-haired stranger was holding on for dear life. "Well, this was a bad idea."

He had barely finished his sentence when the rung snapped beneath his weight.

A surprised shout tearing from his throat, he fell the remaining three metres and landed on his back in Riza's carefully tended lilac bush.

Groaning in pain, he cracked open his eyes only to start back at the menacing form of Berthold Hawkeye looming over him. "You have a lot of explaining to do, boy."

He plucked a stray petal from his cheek and smiled sheepishly. "Good afternoon...sir?"

"He was just kind enough to help us fix the roof, father." Riza interjected softly, feeling rather sympathetic for the alchemist as he slowly fought his way out of the leafy tangles. "I thought the leak had been causing you grief for weeks."

"Hmph." Berthold grunted unappreciatively and inspected the boy the way a scientist may examine an alien specimen. "And who may _you_ be?"

To his credit, the alchemist didn't squirm underneath Berthold's suppressive stare, but instead replied confidently: "My name is –"

"That new apprentice from Central, I assume?" Berthold cut in coldly, and the boy's smile withered slightly. "I wouldn't even have agreed to this meeting if I knew they were sending me a _child_."

Riza could almost agree that he looked a tad bit too young to endure the gruelling apprenticeship under one Berthold Hawkeye, but the boy merely straightened his spine in some indignant attempt to make himself seem taller (the effect was rather ruined by the leaves still entangled in his hair). "I can assure you sir, that I am no child. Besides, the ability to perform alchemy has nothing to do with age or size."

"Is that so?" Berthold was used to intimidating people, and he found this youngster who refused to be intimidated quite intriguing. "And what may a child like you know about alchemy?"

"Well, why don't I show you?" The glimmer which shone in his black eyes spoke of a sharp cleverness otherwise hidden behind a polite demeanour. Riza at once noticed this spark of uncommon intelligence, and it seemed that even her father was not completely blind to raw and unpolished potential.

Berthold simply laughed and waved a hand at his now-fixed roof. "I think you've shown me enough, boy. What I need is an apprentice, not a _repairman_."

The boy pressed his lips together in barely repressed irritation. "That's not all that I can do."

"Oh?" Berthold raised an eyebrow in cruel amusement. "Then another demonstration is clearly in order."

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it again. His face fell. "You mean…like right now?"

"Surely you were far-sighted enough to come prepared," intoned Berthold harshly. "Just because I received your initial payment doesn't mean that I am obligated to accept you as my apprentice. I won't teach people who clearly can't be taught."

"I –" The young alchemist's once uncertain eyes immediately hardened, and he squared his shoulders. "Alright, I'll show you."

He glanced around hastily, desperately looking for some brilliant flash of inspiration.

His expression brightened as his gaze alighted on his luggage bag sitting unopened on the grass, and he quickly extracted a plastic bottle half-filled with water from a side pocket.

Using a broken off tree-branch, the alchemist gouged a perfect circle into the earth at his feet, barely hesitating as he proceeded to sketch several alchemical symbols and shapes. He laid the bottle in the middle of the circle and unscrewed the cap.

His every movement up till now had been imbued with self-assured confidence, but at present he wavered, hesitant as he let his hands hover above his transmutation circle.

His eyes snapped up, darting from Berthold's impassive face to Riza's curious one.

The girl was not known for her tendency to smile either, but this time she did – a very slight curve of the lips almost impossible to notice unless you were paying attention.

She wasn't sure why she did it – that smile. Perhaps she simply felt bad for playing a childish trick on him and wanted to offer what meagre encouragement she could.

He returned her smile with a nervous one of his own and slapped his hands to the ground.

The circle crackled with energy, enveloping the bottle with blue light. The clear liquid shimmered and disappeared in a puff of steam.

Riza blinked and corrected herself, phrasing the phenomenon in more scientific terms – not disappeared, but transformed into a gaseous form.

The boy snatched up the bottle and screwed on the lid, presenting it proudly to Berthold.

"And what is this?" Berthold was still studying the transmutation circle in the ground, both eyebrows raised.

"I decomposed water into its constituent elements – hydrogen and oxygen – before further separating them," he tapped a finger on the bottle and grinned. "This bottle is filled with pure hydrogen."

One who did not know Berthold Hawkeye well would have misinterpreted the slight crinkling of his forehead as displeasure – but Riza knew that it was shock on his face. "That's impossible."

The boy seemed offended by his flatly delivered statement. Pushing a hand into his pocket, he produced a box of matches and struck one.

The ignited match immediately extinguished with a telltale ' _pop!_ ' when he stuck it into the bottle. "If there were oxygen in here," stated the young alchemist. "The match would have flared instead of extinguishing."

"The separation of gases…" Berthold ran a thumb over the stubble decorating his chin, eyes distant as his mind wandered elsewhere from this mortal plane.

The boy misread his misty expression as disappointment. "Oh um, maybe I should have done something more spectacular?"

Berthold's dark eyes cleared and refocused on his young face, and Riza could tell that the man was looking at his latest apprentice in a completely new light.

There was a moment of silence before Berthold turned his back on them and began walking back towards the house. "Riza, could you please show this impertinent brat to his room?"

The boy's nervous expression instantly brightened, a dazzling ray of sunlight after a stormy day. "You – you mean – I can stay, Mr. Hawkeye?"

"That's _Master_ Hawkeye, boy." Berthold's tone was impossibly dry. "Don't expect being my apprentice to be a walk in the park – if I find that you are too incompetent, or if you fail to complete the tasks I set you, I'm sending you straight back to Central."

The boy didn't seem the least bit discouraged by Berthold's harsh words. "Thank you, Master Hawkeye!" he smiled brightly. "Oh, I should introduce myself properly. I am –"

"I know what your name is, boy." Berthold glanced down at him as he pulled open the front door. "Just don't expect me to refer to you properly before you've earned your place here."

The door slammed shut behind his sweeping robes, and his apprentice was unceremoniously left on the grass to gape in astonishment.

Riza handed him his cap. "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping."

"Oh, thanks." The boy gazed at her, tilting his head to the side like a bird. "You're…?"

He seemed reluctant to fill in the blank, so Riza did it for him. "His daughter."

His mouth formed an 'o' of understanding. "I expect I'll be living in your house from now on," he held out a hand and flashed her that same charming smile he'd used on her doorstep. "Roy Mustang. I hope we'll get along well together."

She examined his long, uncalloused fingers which seemed more fitting for a virtuoso pianist than an alchemist, but made no move to take his hand.

She spun around and strode briskly off. Roy hastily picked up his bag and sprinted after her. "You're supposed to tell me your name too!"

Riza fixed him with her trademark amber stare. "And why would I do that?"

"Because…" He rubbed the back of his head, suddenly embarrassed. "Because I've told you mine and it wouldn't be fair otherwise?"

Riza arched an eyebrow before sighing in resignation. "Riza Hawkeye."

She twisted the doorknob.

"And I hope we'll get along well too, Mr. Mustang."

* * *

 _ **1899, Autumn**_

Being fourteen and an alchemist apprenticed to one of the biggest names in the industry, boys tended to have a higher opinion of themselves.

Even so, Roy Mustang was beginning to wonder if he'd bitten off more than he could chew.

Having arrived at the nearest train station from a brief holiday in Central, Roy had paused on the winding dirt trail at sounds of shouting. The narrow road ran along the rim of a shallow valley overgrown with untrimmed grass, and further down the slope, a group of teenage boys flung a willow basket into a bubbling brook. Colourful petals fluttered as neatly tied bouquets of flowers were upended into the water, floating away like miniature boats with vibrant sails.

Standing a few metres away was a girl with flowing auburn locks and gold-brown skin. The girl yelled in frustration and took off barefoot down the valley in an attempt to salvage her precious flowers.

The troupe of boys barred her way, laughing at her distress.

"Excuse me!" Roy called down the slope, voice loud and deliberate.

The auburn-haired girl and the group of boys who'd been teasing her looked up simultaneously.

"Ah, I recognize you." The biggest of the boys – a hulking teenager who looked close to eighteen – sneered widely when he caught sight of Roy. "Aren't you that big city brat who came here a year ago? Do me a favour and get lost."

Roy chewed the inside of his cheek and dropped his backpack on the grass, irritated that everyone here, Riza Hawkeye included, seemed to see him as nothing but the 'big city brat'.

There was more to him than 'the child from Central City', he'd let you know.

Roy raised his chin, one hand placed unthreateningly in his pocket. The touch of chalk at his fingertips reassured him. "My apologies, but I can't very well do that," he pointed at the girl with his other hand, and his stance hardened. "Not until you tell her that you're sorry."

The leader's forehead scrunched up as if he couldn't comprehend why this bizarre boy wasn't running away yet with his tail in between his legs. He trudged up the slope, intending to scare Roy off. "One word, _hell no._ "

"That's two words." Roy smiled and backed away. "And I wouldn't go any further if I were you."

"I'm not listening to whatever bullshit some scrawny kid tells me!"

"Anddd you just stepped on it."

The bigger teen looked down at Roy's words to find that he had both feet within a hastily scraped circle.

Roy crossed his fingers behind his back and hoped this brute knew nothing about alchemy.

To his relief, the bully widened his eyes. "Wha – What the hell is this?"

Roy hadn't had time to scratch out a complete transmutation circle in the damp earth with the toe of his shoe, so the answer was…nothing. But of course, his current opponent didn't know that. "That, my friend, is a circle used to perform alchemy. Step out of it and you'll –" Roy racked his brains. "Turn into a frog!"

Roy suspected that the dramatics were overkill, but he'd been raised as a performer of sorts, so he couldn't help himself.

The best thing was this guy actually believed him.

The bully's eyes widened further. "You little – Someone get me out of here!"

The other four boys abandoned the girl to come to their leader's rescue, but none of them seemed to have any inkling of what to do.

The leader continued to glare up at Roy. "Who the heck _are_ you?"

"Me?" Roy smirked. "I'm an alchemist. _And_ the person who's going to make you apologize to that young lady you've so thoroughly offended."

"Why you –"

What happened next was a further display of pure bad luck.

In what seemed to be a fit of rage, the boy started forward, then remembered Roy's warning and hesitated. Unfortunately, that brief second of hesitance resulted in an imbalance of momentum.

He pitched forward, one foot landing outside the circle.

Everyone froze.

The boy raised his head slowly when nothing happened, a wicked smile stretching across his wide face.

Roy drew out his chalk. _Ah crap._

Before Roy even had the chance to sketch something on his palm, someone's shoulder rammed into his chest, _hard_. He gasped and stumbled, reflexively striking out, fist hitting a wall of soft flesh.

The next few moments felt like all hell had broken loose.

Roy had seen his fair share of bar fights, but he hadn't quite expected this wild flurry of fists and legs; shoving, punching, tumbling, struggling to come up for a fresh lungful of air. He was no slouch when it came to self-defence, but five-on-one odds were far too overwhelming for the slighter alchemist.

He ended up with his face forcefully pressed to the ground, mouth full of dirt and blood.

 _Young and reckless._ Roy could almost hear Master Hawkeye's scornful words by his ear. _You're not fit to be an alchemist, boy._

 _BANG!_

The sharp sound of a gunshot permeated the still country air.

"That's _enough._ "

The pressure on his head and shoulders lessened slightly, and Roy strained to look up, spitting out a clod of earth as he did so.

Riza Hawkeye was standing on the road, a golden goddess of justice taking cool and careful aim with the hunting rifle in her hands.

Roy could vaguely see that the safety had been switched back on, but the threatening sight of the gun alone was enough to make the boys release him and back off.

"Well," the leader rubbed a painful-looking bruise on his cheek. "Isn't it the little witch girl from the next village? Birds of a feather sure flock together."

Riza was unperturbed by the verbal barb. "Leave before I decide to report you to the authorities."

The entire scene seemed rather ridiculous – a slim and underfed girl facing down a boy at least two times larger than her. But said girl had a gun, and _hell_ she looked like she knew how to use one.

The boy tried to stare her down, but Riza didn't budge. In the end, he snorted and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "If you insist."

Roy glared after them, not relaxing until he was sure they were heading back to the town. A white handkerchief fluttered down in front of his eyes, and he caught it.

He blinked up at Riza. "Thanks, but I had it covered."

"Sure you did." Riza raised her eyebrows. "You're lucky father sent me to pick you up from the station. What would he say if I brought you home bloodied and bruised with a broken arm and nose?"

Roy winced as he touched his face experimentally. "I think it may be a bit too late for the nose." Using her handkerchief to staunch his nosebleed, he blinked at the gleaming form of her rifle. "Why do you have… _that_?"

Riza absentmindedly tapped its lovingly polished handle. "I was out in the woods checking my rabbit snares this morning. This protects me against wild animals."

He scratched his head. "I didn't know you hunted."

"There are many things you don't know about me or this place, Mr. Mustang." Riza brushed off her pants and turned her attention to the slope. "Tessa, you can come out now."

"Riza?" A head of lush auburn curls appeared from where the ground dipped into the valley, out of sight.

The flower-girl locked eyes with Roy and blushed.

Riza took this as her cue. "This is Mr. Mustang, my father's new apprentice."

If possible, Tessa blushed an even deeper shade of red. "You really shouldn't have done that."

Before Roy could heroically reply that it hadn't been a big deal, Riza tapped him on the head in mild exasperation. "Don't mind him. He's dumb and rash and hasn't been here long enough to figure out that sometimes it's better to _mind your own business._ "

Roy winced a second time. "That was uncalled for, Ms. Hawkeye."

"No, really." Tessa smiled gently as she overturned her rescued basket on the grass to empty it of excess water. "I'm used to it by now."

Roy blinked in confusion. "What do you mean 'used to it'?"

Tessa frowned slightly and lowered her eyes to the ground. Riza watched the girl seem to fold in on herself and answered: "Tessa's family migrated from Aerugo many years ago."

Roy's obsidian eyes sparked with grim understanding. Foreigners were rarely welcomed in Amestris, considering that their country seemed to be at constant war with one neighbour or another. The war with Aerugo had seen new heights in recent years, so hostility towards the natives was only to be expected.

Tessa simply shrugged at this and picked up her basket. "It's okay. Once the war is over, they'll leave me alone." Her confident smile was betrayed by the splutter of uncertainty reflected in her irises.

War was never truly over.

"You should learn how to protect yourself, Tessa." Riza folded her arms. "People won't always be there to help you."

Tessa shook her head, her smile turning wistful. "I wish I could be like you, Riza," she fingered her long skirt and apron. "But father would be furious if I wore trousers and learned how to fight."

Roy observed this conversation silently, opting to keep his thoughts to himself.

After a long moment, Riza sighed in resignation. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

Tessa stopped her with one outstretched palm. "No, I couldn't possibly trouble you any further," she looked down at Roy and curtsied. "Perhaps we'll see each other another day."

Roy smiled dreamily and waved as she began the short walk back to the town. Aerugonian or not, she was _very_ pretty.

Riza surreptitiously rolled her eyes and offered him a hand. "You surprised me today."

Roy grimaced as he allowed her to help him off the grass. "I'm always full of surprises."

Riza laughed once, albeit softly. "Despite the reckless way you went about it, I didn't expect a city-dweller like you to concern yourself with our petty village matters."

Roy smiled secretively.

"I guess there are just many things you don't know about me, Ms. Hawkeye."

* * *

 _ **1900, Winter**_

Riza Hawkeye levelled her rifle at the snarling wolf and wondered how she'd gotten herself into this situation.

Its magnificent grey coat shimmered and sparkled ethereally, the snowflakes lodged in its fur reflecting the watery sunlight and making the she-wolf seem like an otherworldly creature. It snarled fiercely, displaying a full set of sharp canine teeth.

Riza tensed, gloved finger hovering over the trigger.

Brilliant yellow eyes stared at her from above a long white snout – a predator's eyes, ruthless and deadly.

Riza knew it was suicide to be distracted now, but a flurry of movement behind the wolf drew her eyes for just a second.

A second was all it needed.

With a low growl, the wolf's leg muscles rippled and she lunged, claws outstretched and gleaming.

Riza moved to pull the trigger, but the image of what she'd seen behind the wolf – a litter of grey pups huddled in the snow – flashed through her mind. She cursed when she hesitated, knowing that it was too late to escape those flashing teeth.

"Riza!"

A crackle of light, a burst of snow, an…avalanche?

Riza fell on her back as the wolf vanished from sight in a wave of searing white.

Funny how all this could have stemmed from a single heated argument on a wintry morning.

* * *

It was not uncommon for Berthold Hawkeye's young apprentice to be shouted out of his master's study from time to time.

It was, however, uncommon for Berthold Hawkeye to be extremely, genuinely _pissed_ enough for him to actually meanit.

And that was, in short, how Riza found Roy Mustang shivering amongst the snow that morning.

The alchemist was an eye-catching spot of black in the pure white world, especially since he was sitting miserably on the wooden steps of their front porch. The roof couldn't quite keep off the softly falling snow, and his dark hair was already dusted with glittering snowflakes.

Riza kept her expression cautiously blank. "I heard the shouting."

Roy sniffed and wrapped his arms around himself. "It _was_ rather loud."

Riza stared at his slouched form for a moment longer before trudging back into the house. She emerged a few minutes later outfitted in full winter gear, the leather strap of her hunting rifle swinging on one shoulder.

She dropped a thick winter coat and a pair of leather boots into his lap. "Let's go."

Roy blinked at the equipment which had seemingly appeared out of thin air. "What? Where?"

Truth be told, Riza wasn't quite looking forward to being in the same house as her father when he was in one of his extra-thunderous moods. And since Roy wasn't allowed back in either…

"Deer hunting." Riza said simply. She pointed at the sky. "Fresh snowfall means fresh tracks."

If it wasn't completely uncool to let his jaw drop, Roy would have promptly done so. He struggled to control his expression, but his stumbling tongue revealed his surprise nonetheless. "Uh?"

Throughout his third year of apprenticeship, Roy had often accompanied Riza out on her various hunting expeditions – which usually meant setting and checking rabbit snares. To say that Riza had been reluctant to let him tag along was an understatement, and although she was a quiet girl of few words, she was not at all shy when it came to reproaching Roy about his absolute lack of subtlety and stealth.

"Antlers sell for a high price, and the meat can feed us for weeks." Riza tapped one foot impatiently on the threshold. "But if I manage to get one, I need someone to help carry it back."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Roy's mouth. "And this has nothing to do with the fact that I'm banned from the house until Master Hawkeye's fit of rage subsides?"

They both knew that could take all day, and that was when they were _lucky_.

Riza could barely stop her own mouth from curving upwards. "Think what you like. Now, are you coming or not?"

* * *

Today was simply not her day.

Riza struggled to open her frozen eyelids. A soft moan escaped her lips as she tried to push off the heavy weight pressing against her side.

They'd been trailing some relatively fresh deer tracks all day, only to discover that its owner had already been reduced to nothing but blood and shattered bones under the fearsome jaws of a she-wolf and her hungry pups.

The rest, as they say, is history.

The weight pinning her down shifted, and Riza rolled over, scrubbing a hand over her forehead to regain her bearings. The dim light of near sunset filtered into her vision, illuminating a small forest clearing thoroughly buried in snow.

"Ri – Ms. Hawkeye?" A cold hand touched her arm, and Riza turned to see Roy crouched over her. His face was shadowed, but his apologetic tone was all Riza needed to decipher the anxiousness in his eyes.

Riza groaned and sat up, causing snow to spill off her coat and onto the frozen ground. Her fingers were still clenched around her rifle, and she drew it close to her body, but the deep chill in her bones refused to be driven away.

"I'm okay," she coughed and waved his bare hand away. "What happened to your glove?"

"It was quicker drawing a transmutation circle without it." Roy stood, shaking off the pile of snow on his shoulders. "I think I may have gone a little overboard with my snowslide. We should go before the wolf digs herself out."

"It's too dark to make it out of the woods." Using her rifle as a makeshift crutch, Riza managed to climb unsteadily to her feet. "Many wild beasts hunt at nightfall."

Roy swivelled, and Riza nearly started back at the force of his gaze. Every last inch of his body was coiled as tight as a spring – with fear, or guilt? "We'll freeze out here."

"No, we won't." Riza laid her numb fingers on his shoulder. He tensed, but relaxed an instant later. "I know a place."

They weren't very far from the old hunting lodge, which was the sole piece of good luck they'd had that day.

Roy had been uncharacteristically silent throughout their slow plough through the ankle-high snow, and now he watched, quiet as a panther on the hunt, while Riza fought to get the rotted wooden door open.

Once inside, Riza immediately set to getting a fire going. Roy shut the door, bolted it against any wild animals which may come prowling, and leaned against it. "You know this place well."

Riza located the small box of matches buried underneath a yearlong supply of firewood. She struck one, and the flare of its warmth felt divine to her cold face. "Someone I knew used to own this lodge."

"Is it the same person who gave you that rifle?"

Riza froze at his words, but continued to calmly stoke the flames with loose pieces of kindling. "How did you know?"

"There are initials scratched into the handle. Initials that aren't yours." There was a creak of wooden floorboards as Roy sat down across the room.

Riza was silent, fingers absentmindedly finding her rifle and tracing the worn letters carefully engraved into the smooth wooden stock.

 _ **G.V.**_

"Mr. Vicars was a hunter who used to live down the street from us," started Riza, turning so she was facing Roy. "After my mother died, my father simply…gave up on taking care of himself. So I had to take care of him. Mr. Vicars would drop off extra rabbit meat sometimes, and when I was old enough, he taught me how to hunt and use this rifle."

"What happened to him?" Roy's voice was low, cautious even.

Riza smiled bitterly. "He joined the military and was deployed to the Cretan frontlines."

She let those words hang, crystallized, in the frozen air between them. Hinting at the words which would undoubtedly come after.

 _And he never came back._

Riza wasn't sure how she'd expected Roy to react to her little narrative. That rifle, and the story which came with it, felt so deeply embedded in her soul it was almost indistinguishable from herself – the stuff which made her Riza Hawkeye.

She had laid a piece of herself out for him to scrutinize, while he – this smiling, laughing boy who never seemed to have a care in the world – had never done the same for her.

Roy shut his eyes and sighed. "You never asked what Master Hawkeye and I were fighting about this morning."

Riza moved one shoulder up and down nonchalantly. "It wasn't any of my business."

"He asked me today, what I planned to do once I completed my apprenticeship." Roy ran a hand through the silken strands of his hair, pressing his palm to his forehead. "I told him I wanted to get my state certification."

He too let those words hang, crystallized, in the frozen air between them. Hinting at the words which would undoubtedly come after.

 _And join the military._

Riza swallowed. "Are you like the rest of them, then?"

"What?"

"Those people – State Alchemists who violate their promise to the people and leash themselves like dogs to the government for money, power, privilege." Riza bit her lip to stop herself. She was starting to sound like her father. "Are you like that?"

Roy drew in a breath and laughed. The sound was low and husky, the sky's warning whisper before a thunderstorm. "Don't be naïve, Ms. Hawkeye," something foreign flickered in his ink black eyes. "I became an alchemist to serve the people, and _only_ the people. But how can I do that without power or influence?"

Riza twisted her fingers in a lap, sensing that this was quickly approaching dangerous territory.

"I grew up in a bar in one of the darkest parts of Central City." Roy's voice was quiet when he spoke next. "I saw the world through the eyes of my sisters – a barren landscape of lust and lies and corruption."

He paused, as if wondering whether it was wise to be telling her this, but then smiled – his usual smile, casual and untroubled. "I cannot deny that your words are not without support. But it seems to me that the only way to make this country a better place as an alchemist, even marginally, is by earning my state certification."

"But what if you never come back?"

Riza kept her eyes on the scratched and dirtied floorboards. She wasn't sure how she would feel if this boy left one day, never to return.

 _Lonely_ – she realized – _She would be left alone again._

A loud and ringing snap of the fingers made her start and glance up. Roy had his hand mere inches away from her face, a warm smile on his lips. "I'll come back." His eyes and voice softened. "But I'm not afraid of not being able to either."

Riza pressed her lips together. "You should be."

"I'm not afraid because I know my dream is worth fighting for." Roy's smile didn't waver. "What about you, Ms. Hawkeye? Don't you have any dreams?"

 _Dreams…_

The rest of that night would eventually melt away, and all Riza would remember from that particularly cold winter were those black eyes, and his soft words.

 _Don't you have any dreams?_

* * *

 _ **1902, Spring**_

Winter thawed into spring, spring burned into summer, summer cooled into autumn, autumn froze into winter. The seasons changed as they always did, but Riza Hawkeye was starting to notice little peculiarities in her behaviour as the year went by.

The young apprentice from Central was kept as busy as always, and Riza would often find him sitting cross-legged by the fireplace reading or writing into the night. This in itself was not at all strange, but Riza was surprised at herself when she began to find little chores to do near the hearth to keep him company.

It became part of their daily lives for Riza to sit down on the cold flagstones, her sewing kit or a roll of dough in her hands. Roy would smile at her as she mended clothes or prepared the following day's bread, and he would reward her presence with many tales of the city and the world.

She got the feeling that these were tales Roy had rarely told another soul – for all his outgoingness and charm, he was actually a very private person who kept his secrets tidily folded away. He would narrate stories about his sisters and their 'adventures', describe daily life in Central City, and illustrate with his words the mansions of the rich and the slums of the poor. He also knew much about Amestris's history and those of the countries surrounding it – the hardy warriors of Drachma, the rocky plains of Creta, the magnificent pagodas of Xing.

The boy was a delightful storyteller, and for a country girl who'd never been very far from home, Riza found herself delving deeper and deeper into the knowledge he shared with her. It was almost as if he'd brought the entire world with him – a wonderful, vibrant, dazzling world beyond the fields and forests Riza knew so well.

It suddenly became harder to deny that his appearance in her dull and colourless life had filled the emptiness of being unaided and alone. She found herself finding more excuses to accompany him on his occasional trip to town, and he would conveniently find his own excuses to accompany her on her occasional hunt in the woods.

Part of her found his companionship enjoyable, but part of her was also aware that these joyful days in the sun would have to end.

The only question was: _when?_

The fifth year of his apprenticeship, at the beginning of spring, Riza was out in the lawn hanging the laundry out to dry.

A familiar face popped out from behind a large white sheet. "Good morning, Riza!"

"Good morning, Tessa," replied Riza evenly, stretching up on her tiptoes to fasten a wooden peg to the other side of the sheet. The clothing line drooped into a massive smiley-face shape under the weight of the wet fabric. "What brings you to our village?"

Tessa smiled and held up her willow basket. Today, it was filled to the brim with lovely bouquets of various flowers, all decorated with glossy ribbons. "I'm delivering flower reservations. I thought I'd drop by your house to say hello." At this, she stealthily cocked her head to take a peek behind Riza's back.

"Mr. Mustang is in town on an errand today." Riza intoned calmly, leaning down to grasp her empty laundry basket.

"Are you _still_ calling him that?" Tessa pouted, but her disappointed expression quickly morphed into a sly grin. "I mean, the two of you seem pretty close."

"Old habits are hard to break." Riza turned to go back inside the house, but Tessa smoothly stepped in front of her.

"What about the Spring Festival in town tomorrow?" Tessa's sly look showed no signs of withdrawing. "Are you thinking of going?"

"Don't be absurd. I never go because –" Riza paused, bit her lip and glowered at the younger girl, who hid a very unladylike snigger behind her hand. "I never have anyone to go with."

The Spring Festival was the biggest celebration of the year, held in the town centre and attended by almost everyone from the smaller neighbouring villages. To the old, it was an important tradition rejoicing the arrival of spring and the departure of winter; to the young, it was simply a convenient excuse to drink, party and dance till midnight.

Since her mother's death, her father had simply stopped taking her. And Riza had never felt comfortable going by herself.

"You're just being difficult. I invite you every year and every year you refuse." Tessa stated, holding a hand over her heart in mock hurt. "But I wonder if someone _else_ were to invite you…"

Riza smacked the top of Tessa's head playfully. "Don't be absurd." She repeated.

Tessa winked conspiratorially. "I'll see you there then!"

Riza was left standing on the threshold, hands on her hips as she watched Tessa cheerfully slam the gate shut and continue on her way.

"I never said I'll be there…"

* * *

"Are you going to the Spring Festival tomorrow, young Master Roy?"

Roy waved a hand in polite denial. "Please, Mr. Frith. Just Roy is fine."

Frith, a spritely old man of age eighty and counting, smiled crookedly. "Nay, it wouldn't do to be rude to the man who fixes my barn almost every year."

Roy laughed and made himself stand a little straighter, proud to be called a 'man' for once. He'd had his growth spurt last winter, and as a result had more or less grown out of his boyish looks. "Speaking of which, what happened to it _this_ time?"

He gestured at the huge hole punched neatly through the wooden wall of the Frith barn.

"Natural disaster," the old man simply chuckled. "My grandson was a bit too overenthusiastic with his tractor driving lessons."

Roy raised an eyebrow and took out his chalk, stalking around the hole as he tried to figure out how to repair it. "You should be more careful with your barn, Mr. Frith. I won't always be around to fix it."

As Roy began to scratch a circle into the still-intact section of the wall, Frith tapped gnarled fingers on his thigh and grunted. "Ay, that's true. One day the chicks will grow into chickens and fly the coop, I'll say. Village life too peaceful for the young'uns."

Roy winced at the analogy. "Chickens?"

"Yes, chickens. Hens and roosters alike." Frith cackled loudly. "The Festival, Master Roy? My wife be making her famous sugared apples for sale."

Roy _mmm_ ed thoughtfully and pressed a hand to his completed circle. It crackled and flared, causing the existing wooden boards to elongate over the opening. "I don't have anyone to go with this year."

Or more accurately, he'd refused all invitations he'd received, thinking that he'd had enough of the chaotic fun which was the western Spring Festival.

"Ah, but I've never seen you go with Master Hawkeye's daughter." Mr. Frith grinned toothily, a sparkle in his eye. "She's a lonely 'un, that girl. Never seen her speak more than two sentences to anyone but you."

Roy blinked, astounded by the elderly farmer's suggestion. "Nah she – she wouldn't even if I asked."

"But you've never _asked_ , and that's the whole point of it." Frith laughed again, slapping his knees as if Roy had just told him the funniest joke in the world. "My poor granddaughter would be heartbroken, but I think Ms. Hawkeye is the right 'un for you."

Despite himself, Roy flushed. "It's not like that."

"Just ask, dear boy! Ask or you'll regret it!"

Roy brushed off his hands, surveying the good-as-new barn wall. The Festival…it _would_ be a great opportunity to break the news to her, an occasion he had been dreading.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

Riza Hawkeye was not your average Amestrian girl, but that did not mean she didn't indulge herself in girlish whims once in a while.

She smiled sarcastically to herself as she twirled in front of the full-length mirror. Her reflection was unclear in the dusty and unused glass, but she allowed herself a moment to admire her dress regardless.

It was one of her late mother's prized possessions – a simple dress made of finespun wool trimmed with lace, the fabric a vibrant golden green which reminded her of sunlight dappled leaves. She let her hands rest on her hips, wondering when was the last time she'd had occasion to wear a dress this fancy.

Even this particular occasion seemed unbelievable by itself. She mused over the events of the previous night: Roy awkwardly proposing going to the Festival the next evening, hurriedly amending that she didn't have to come with if she didn't want to; a flustered Riza agreeing to his invitation without much further thought.

There was a knock on her bedroom door, and she self-consciously smoothed down the invisible creases in her skirt before moving to open it.

Roy was standing in the narrow wooden hallway, and Riza was pleased to see that he promptly gaped at her attire. "I…wasn't aware that dressing up was required." He quickly averted his eyes and tugged at the sleeve of his plain white shirt.

Riza was doubly pleased to see that he was blushing slightly – or it could be just a trick of the light. "I thought wearing something different would be fun." She patted down her hair, aware that she'd done nothing more than run a brush through it.

Roy noticed the awkward motion. "If you don't mind, Ms. Hawkeye?"

And that was how she ended up sitting in the living room, trying not to fidget as Roy braided her hair. "Should I be surprised that you're good at this?"

She couldn't see his face, but she could almost imagine the smug grin he must be wearing right now. His touch was gentle, his fingers nimble as he weaved wildflowers into her golden strands. "It's amazing what you pick up after living in a house full of girls who use you as their living doll."

Riza had to stifle a small chuckle at the ensuing mental image.

Once Roy was done admiring his handiwork, both teenagers exited into the cool air of near-dusk, Roy holding the door open as he swept into a dramatic bow.

"You're being awfully gentlemanly today."

"Nothing less for a ravishing lady such as you." Roy grinned, but Riza, quite immune to any charms he might throw her way, merely gave him an admonishing look.

"Did my father let you off alchemy training today?"

"Master Hawkeye always locks himself in his study after dinner. He won't even notice we're gone."

Thinking back, that night was one of the very last happy memories she still had.

She remembered the long walk down the familiar dirt lane, taking off her uncomfortable formal shoes at the halfway point and deciding to resume the journey barefoot. Roy laughed at this, but immediately quietened when Riza shot him an icy stare.

The Spring Festival was a full day affair, but the festivities which commenced after sundown were always much more popular. The small town blazed and shimmered from miles away, alight with bonfires and fairy lights, seeming content to shed its dull, dusty cloak for one day in celebration of spring.

Colourful stalls decorated with floral garlands had been set up along the main street, and a procession was in full swing when they arrived. Riza instinctively stepped behind Roy, using him as a barrier against the tremendous noise and hubbub.

"Don't you like it?" he called over the cheerful clamour of blowing trumpets and whistling flutes. Villagers decked out in flowers were marching towards the town centre, leaving a trail of streamers and confetti in their wake. Children danced in the street, kicking up multi-coloured shreds of paper and squealing in delight.

"It's been a while since I've been in a crowd this large," said Riza quietly.

"WHAT?" Roy shouted, flinching as a French horn blared right into his ear.

"Never mind!"

He bought them sugared apples on sticks, and Riza slowly chewed her way through hers as they strolled leisurely down the winding cobblestone lanes. Roy pointed out various attractions and carnival games, often waving to familiar faces on the street.

As dusk turned into night, painted lanterns were lit along the walkways and hung from open windows. People who'd rarely even glanced at her on a regular day shouted drunken greetings from their porches.

Roy eyed a wooden stall selling tankards of custom-made ale.

Riza bit off a piece of her apple, juice filling her mouth. "We're both underage, you know."

Roy made a face. "But I'll be eighteen next week."

"Still underage."

She was always stopping him from doing something stupid.

Roy frowned and reluctantly tore his gaze away from the incriminating alcohol and onto a shooting game stall next door.

His emotions as changeable as his personality, the frown instantly morphed into a wide grin. Riza pretended not to notice the mischievous glint in his eye – the one which was her cue to talk him out of something he'd surely regret.

Predictably, the next five minutes witnessed Roy spending nearly all his money at the stall, trying to hit one of the moving targets with a wooden rifle and missing every time.

The targets were pieces of hard cardboard cut into shapes of various people, and Riza watched in vague amusement while Roy cursed and swore and muttered vicious profanities she didn't even know he was capable of at the gleefully smiling figurines.

In the end, he slammed the toy rifle down on the table, breathing heavily. "I swear those things are laughing at me."

Riza licked her sticky fingers and grabbed the rifle. "If I may?"

Without waiting for a response, she cocked the gun, aimed, and fired.

The recoil was obviously much less than her actual rifle, and she barely felt the moment a round wooden pellet blasted out of the barrel.

 _TWACK!_

One of the smiling dolls disappeared over the edge.

"We still have one try left," she reached out a hand expectedly.

When Roy simply stared at her offered palm in bewilderment, she smoothly snatched up his arm and put the rifle in his hands, neatly folding his fingers over the stock and trigger. "Hold it like this."

"Ah, oh. Okay."

"Steady. Try to predict where the target is going." Unsatisfied with his posture, Riza tapped his tense shoulders. "Relax."

He took a deep breath and blew it out in a mighty rush of air. "Alright." Narrowing his eyes, he took aim and pulled the trigger.

The wooden pellet ricocheted off the side of a doll's head, but it was enough force to send it toppling off the moving conveyor belt.

Roy whooped in exhilaration, received his prize, and immediately paid for another round.

Between Riza, Roy, and the rest of his pocket money, they eventually had to be chased off by the stall's owner before they could shoot his targets into bankruptcy.

Riza also made Roy return most of their spoils, stating in her best matter-of-fact voice that neither one of them had any use for an oversized pink teddy bear.

He had to concede her point, but once they were wandering the streets again, Roy started tugging at her sleeve like a young child. It was as if he'd transformed from the dignified teenager he prided himself on being into the blundering boy who'd first arrived on her doorstep, and Riza couldn't stop her smile from growing broader.

"Look," he pointed at the town square, now visible over the milling crowd. "Maypole dancing!"

In the middle of the stone-paved courtyard was a circle of grass, where the townspeople had erected a glorious maypole ten metres tall, beautifully adorned with fresh flowers, leaves and seemingly random plantlife. Many long ribbons had been tied to a circle on top of the pole, some of them fluttering aimlessly in the wind, most of them already taken up by pairs of boys and girls, women and men.

It took Riza a second to fully register that he was asking her to dance. "But I –"

Roy reached out his hand towards her, catching himself before he could grasp her wrist in what would be considered a rude gesture. "I mean…if you want to?"

He was such a perfect picture of teenage dejection, all lowered eyes and barely repressed excitement, that Riza felt herself hesitate.

She sighed, and let her fingers fall to rest on his. "Just this once."

Roy beamed at her, and in a brief moment of nervous giddiness she thought that smile was more beautiful than any spring flower in full bloom.

They slipped quickly through the crowd, Riza's bare feet sliding on the damp grass as they each grabbed a ribbon in the alternating circle of boys and girls. A small four person band of cello, violin, flute and drum were set up on the cobblestones.

The flutist put his instrument to his lips and blew the opening notes of a well-known country jig, lively and vivacious. The other instruments joined in, and the spectators cheered.

Their circle began to turn like a well-oiled machine as the participants burst into an energetic dance. Riza had danced these exact same steps as a small girl, and her feet seemed to move of their own accord, tugging her by the hand and yanking her on as the dancers split into two rings, one rotating clockwise and the other anticlockwise.

Laughter built in her throat as she twirled and spun, the dancers spinning with her. Her body felt alive as it hadn't in a long time, the brush of her skirt and the whip of her hair gathering around her in a maelstrom of sensations.

Roy disappeared from her side, only to reappear when his circle made a full turn. She caught a glimpse of his grin as the dance moved into the second stage, its participants weaving around and under each other's ribbons in a complex plaiting pattern.

The cheers intensified, the music gaining a near frenzied life of its own as the dancers twirled towards the pole, their ribbons wrapping around its wooden base and winding them in closer and closer, an undeniable force of attraction.

The encouraging hoots of the onlookers hit a roaring climax as the dancers met at the base of the maypole, seeming hopelessly entangled in a kaleidoscope-like confusion of ribbons and limbs. Riza found herself ending up right back where she'd started, face-to-face with Roy, who was grinning like a madman.

The laughter she'd been holding in erupted out of her in a bright and ringing sound – it'd felt good, _really_ good, to dance like a child again.

She felt a warm hand cup her cheek, nudging her to look up. Roy's hair was windswept, a strange, wild look in his eyes.

He leaned in closer, close enough that their faces were almost touching. She blinked, but didn't jerk away.

She felt his lips brush against hers, and they kissed then, sweet and soft, underneath the maypole.

Riza's face flushed with heat when Roy pulled back, as abruptly as if he'd been burnt. The untethered glint in the black depths of his irises had faded away into shadows, and he turned away from her.

Riza was too breathless to speak, and before she could regain her bearings, the dance had started up again.

Roy disappeared out of sight when the dancers retraced their steps, untangling the ribbons as they went.

The maypole dance winded down to its final notes. Riza let her ribbon go, glancing around frantically for a familiar flash of raven hair.

He was already pushing his way through the gathered crowd, moving away from the town square.

Riza caught him by the shoulder before he could be swallowed up by the sea of moving bodies. He spun, a perplexed expression on his face. "Ms. Hawkeye," he paused. "I'm sorry. That was very untoward of me."

Riza frowned. She didn't want him to be _sorry_. But she wasn't even sure what it was she wanted anymore. "What happened?"

Roy shut his eyes and exhaled. "I wanted to tell you on the way back."

"Tell me what?"

"I'm leaving."

Riza froze. The noises of the festival seemed to fade out of focus, until the sole inhabitants of this world were them and only them. "When?"

"The end of this week."

"Does my father know?"

"I haven't told him."

Riza bit the inside of her cheek. "Where?"

He didn't hesitate. "The military academy at Central."

Riza let her hand drop to her side. "I see."

Her tone was a matter-of-fact and cool. She looked away, clasping her hands together in front of her dress. "It's getting late. We should head back."

"Alright." His answer was short and simple.

They said nothing more for the rest of the night.

In fact, Riza wasn't sure if they said anything more than a few customary greetings for the rest of the week.

The day he left, Riza watched from her window as he dragged a tattered old bag down the pathway in front of her house. It was drizzling slightly, turning the glass misty and white.

She rested a hand on the windowsill, wondering if he would look up, just one last time.

He didn't.

She was left alone and empty at the window, pondering why she hadn't opened it and said goodbye.

* * *

… _Lieutenant?_

She blinked drowsily, still dreaming of warm days running barefoot in the sun.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

A gloved hand landed on hers – not the coarseness of _pyrotex_ , but rather the rubbery feel of latex.

She started awake, shaking her head in a desperate attempt to clear it. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

The blurred features of the fresh-faced paramedic slowly swam into focus. The eyes above her pale green surgical mask were sympathetic. "We're almost at East City General Hospital."

Hawkeye pinched the bridge of her nose, aware that she had let the long five hour ride lull her into near-slumber. Her free hand had been folded over his prone one, and she instantly snatched it away, now conscious of the extra pair of eyes in the cramped space.

To be completely fair, Riza herself felt sorry for the obviously exhausted doctor. The hospital in Sersa was small and significantly under-staffed, though she was eternally grateful to them for providing immediate and efficient emergency help.

Riza didn't let her eyes linger too long on the colonel's seemingly sleeping face, knowing that she had to keep the distance between them as professional as possible in the presence of a stranger. Pushing down the uncertainty gnawing at her stomach, she glanced out the dusty window just in time to see the bright lights of the emergency department entrance come into view.

The rushing sounds of the small portable ventilator feeding into his lungs and the humming of wheels on tarmac filled the air, right before the ambulance screeched to a shaky stop.

They had been expecting them, and the metal doors were almost instantly flung open, followed by a flurry of movement and shouts in medical jargon that Riza was far too disorientated to understand.

She could hear snippets of words as the paramedic recited information to one of the ER doctors: "Extensive blood loss…fragmentation damage…emergency transfusion performed five hours prior…"

When Riza finally managed to step off the vehicle and into the chilly night air, it was to the harsh greeting of a senior medical officer. "You say this is the person who came with him?"

This question was directed at the paramedic, who merely nodded mutely.

"Alright, we'll need patient information forms filled right now. If you could follow me -" The medical officer frowned as a sudden question seemed to occur to him. "I'm sorry, but you're the patient's...?"

He let his sentence trail off in expectancy, and Riza rubbed her forehead. The response came almost without thought. "I'm his –"

She paused.

 _His?_

What, exactly? It seemed that neither of them knew the definite answer to that.

Riza straightened herself, eyes staring directly ahead. "My name is Lieutenant Hawkeye, and I'm one of Colonel Mustang's subordinates."

* * *

 _ **1904, Spring**_

 _It was only fitting that he came back the exact season he'd left, two years after._

 _She had already been expecting his unexpected arrival, but that didn't lessen any of the shock when she pulled open the door to find not the cheerful boy of years back, but a sombre soldier dressed in full Amestrian uniform._

Royal blue certainly suited his obsidian eyes well.

 _He blinked at her, and his mouth curved into a familiar smile. "You cut your hair."_

 _Riza touched her neatly trimmed locks. "You cut yours too."_

 _Roy chuckled softly and ran a hand through his windblown hair. "Military academy standards." He paused then, and his eyes turned serious. "How is Master Hawkeye?"_

" _He's not getting any better, if that's what you're asking." Riza politely stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. She reflected briefly that he used to be able to let himself in without any sense of awkwardness – but now, he was merely another stranger. "I think that's why he wanted to see you."_

 _Roy shrugged off his coat, opting to drape it over his arm instead of leaving it on the hook above the door. "I didn't know...that he was so sick."_

 _Riza didn't answer the hidden questions she knew must be tearing him up from within. She didn't tell him why she hadn't returned his letters, or why she hadn't asked him for help when her father fell seriously ill._

 _Instead, she simply said: "You were his best apprentice."_

 _Riza thought that Roy would feel pride at those words, but now, all she saw on his face was remorse._

 _When he didn't reply, she swivelled and began to lead the way towards the staircase. "He's waiting for you. I'll bring up some tea after – camomile or jasmine? Cinnamon has become too expensive."_

 _A hand touched her shoulder, so gentle that she almost didn't notice it. "Riza, wait."_

Riza. Not 'Ms. Hawkeye'.

 _She turned her head, keeping her voice even. "What is it, Mr. Mustang?"_

 _Roy's onyx-jewelled eyes were as mesmerizing as she remembered. "How are you?"_

 _Riza already knew what her reply was going to be, but still she stalled slightly, even though her tone remained cautiously cool. "I'm fine, thank you for asking."_

The seasons went on without you. Life went on, and you never looked back.

 _He nodded once before mounting the steps._

 _Riza shook her head and went to check if the kettle was boiling._

 _He hadn't chosen between jasmine and camomile, so she picked the jasmine-flavoured teabag and dropped it into the steaming water. Its fragrant smell permeated the musty air, reminding her that it was spring outside._

 _"Master!"_

 _A shout from above startled her, causing the water to splash over the rim of the cup and scald her hand._

 _"Someone call a doctor!"_

 _She'd never run so fast in her life._

* * *

Where are you going, Riza?

 _To the military academy. To become a soldier._

Why, Riza? Don't you like it here?

 _There's nothing left in this village for me. Nothing but an empty house and a lawn full of weeds._

Why the military, Riza? Didn't your father hate them?

 _My father did hate them, till his dying breath. I guess I do too, but_ he _was right._

Right about what?

 _Becoming a part of the military is the only way to make things better. Like it or not, they are the reigning entity in Amestris, and have power over what stays and what goes. The only way to make my father's dream come true, is to join them._

Your father, Riza? Your father imprisoned you here all your life. Are you still fighting for his dream?

 _Not just his dream – for his dream was to see Flame Alchemy put to good use. I am following_ my _dream now. My dream is to make Amestris better, to find meaning in my life._

You're young and foolish, Riza.

 _Perhaps I am. Perhaps all I see down this road is light and hope – but for now, that's more than enough._

* * *

"Major Miles and Scar are here."

Fuery's voice drew her eyes upwards, and First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye instantly snapped to attention, rising from the uncomfortable plastic chair to salute the Ishvalan major.

Miles waved off her salute. "It's fine. You've had a long day, lieutenant."

A large and hulking silhouette appeared seemingly out of nowhere behind Miles, expression as impassive as ever.

Scar nodded stiffly at Riza.

Riza inhaled and dipped into a deep bow. All those present – Breda, Fuery, Falman, even Miles – visibly started at the unexpected motion.

"Thank you." She whispered.

"No, you don't have to thank me." Riza gradually raised her eyes at the steady voice. Scar nodded again. "I had the knowledge and the means, so there was no reason why I shouldn't have done it."

Riza straightened, biting back her words that he had _every_ reason not to. "How?"

"My brother studied Eastern Alkahestry extensively. When going through his research notes before the Promised Day, I unintentionally learned some of the basic techniques. Among these, I know how to clot blood and stop heavy bleeding."

Riza inclined her head in understanding. "You and Major Miles didn't have to come all this way."

"Think nothing of it. We have some business to attend to in East City anyway." Miles smiled kindly, gaze flicking fleetingly towards the glass doors of the operating theatre directly opposite their current position. He exchanged glances with Scar. "Perhaps we should give you all some space."

Riza saluted again. "If you'd allow me, I can arrange lodgings for you at Eastern Command."

"There's no need to trouble you, lieutenant. I can arrange that myself." Even though he was a major, Miles saluted her in farewell.

Falman waited until they had disappeared down the white corridor before tapping Riza on the shoulder.

"Hawkeye, perhaps –" The older man stopped in midsentence, seeming unable to squeeze the words out.

Riza frowned at him.

Fortunately, Breda stepped in and saved the warrant officer from any further embarrassment. "You have blood on your hands," he winced at the poor wording. "I mean, literally."

Riza raised her hands, examining the patches of dried blood coating it. "I see," she dropped them back to her sides. "I'll go wash up. You three should head back to HQ and get some rest."

Fuery shook his head firmly, even though his eyelids were already drooping and he stifled a yawn. "I'm staying here."

Breda and Falman expressed mutual sentiments regarding the subject, and Riza decided she didn't have the energy to pursue it further.

* * *

Mirrors were strange things.

Riza scrubbed forcefully at her fingers until they were red and raw, then splashed cool running water over her face. She gasped, feeling like she'd just been dunked in a bucketful of ice.

Letting the gurgling sounds of water fill the restroom, Riza stared at herself in the grimy bathroom mirror, studying the tired amber eyes, the pallid skin, the redness of her lower lip from biting on it in repressed anxiety.

She felt like a ghost, a phantom.

 _You've changed too much._

Secluded and finally left alone with her thoughts, Riza hung her head and tried to push away the sudden hurricane of emotions, threatening to pull her under at the slightest hint of weakness.

She'd told herself she couldn't afford to be weak. She couldn't afford to give in to her feelings like she'd done underneath the Third Laboratory.

But despite that all, the tears started flowing anyway, nearly indistinguishable from the droplets of moisture already clinging to her face.

Clutching the sides of the sink, her quiet sobs were conveniently disguised by the continuous whoosh of running water.

Once she was sure there was nothing left, she calmly turned off the tap, picked up her jacket from the side of the sink, and pushed open the door.

Alphonse Elric looked up at her from where he'd been waiting at the end of the hallway. "Lieutenant!"

Riza smiled at him. "Alphonse. How's your brother?"

Al returned the smile, although his was noticeably much shakier. "Ed is okay. He has one broken arm in a cast and is in one heck of a bad mood, but he's okay. Lieutenant Havoc is making sure he does exactly what the doctors tell him to."

Riza knew that Havoc was the type who preferred to keep his hands busy to distract himself from other things. And Edward _was_ quite the handful. "What about you, Alphonse?"

"Me? I'm okay." The younger Elric averted his golden eyes. Spotting another line of plastic chairs outside the restroom, he gestured towards it. "Would you like to wait with me, lieutenant?"

At Riza's inquisitive expression, Al elaborated further: "I find time passes faster when you're not sitting in direct view of what you're waiting for."

He said this in such a meaningful tone Riza could only assume he spoke from personal experience.

Riza nodding in consent, they both took a seat on the otherwise empty row of chairs.

Alphonse didn't say anything. He didn't ask her if she was okay, or how she was feeling. He knew better, and Riza was grateful for it.

Somehow, it felt like he understood. He'd been there when she'd broken down in front of Lust, so he _had_ to understand.

They sat there in comfortable silence for what seemed like hours. The teenager eventually started nodding off, and at some point, Riza turned around to find him dozing against the headrest, scrunching up his eyebrows in unrestful sleep.

Smiling in motherly exasperation, Riza gently shifted him until Alphonse was curled up on the chairs, her military jacket bundled underneath his head.

The Elric muttered in his sleep, turned over, and started snoring softly.

A single ray of sunlight fell over his face, reflecting off his golden hair.

Riza Hawkeye raised her head, shielding her eyes against the glare.

Outside the window, dawn had finally broken.

* * *

 **Special Announcement (I didn't want my A/N to be too long so I'm inserting this here):**

 **As of two weeks ago, this fic just reached a shocking 100 reviews! *cue the fireworks and confetti* Right now, the record stands at 111, which is a pretty awesome number, and t** **he honour of the 100th reviewer goes to Beloved Daughter *cue applause* (please correct me if my math is faulty...I know I can do some real stupid shit sometimes).**

 **Just give me a moment to cry and be emotional because I honestly never thought I'll make it this far with a weird fanfic idea I decided to write on purely a split-second whim.**

 **Anyhoo, I'll be writing a commemorative one-shot for this milestone, and instead of just letting one person pick I decided to do something different. Right now, I'm officially accepting _any and all story requests_. **

**The rules are simple: it (obviously) has to be related to FMA or FMAB, and doesn't have to be specifically related to this particular fic. I was apparently nerdy enough to have watched/read everything save for the live-action(planning to, don't judge) and the light novels, so I think I'm pretty good in that context.**

 **I'll probably choose one I'm most confident about and post that in the next few weeks, but if I receive any other requests those will probably be complied into a special sequence of one-shots at the end of this story.**

 **So if you immediately think of something you've always wanted to see in this fandom, please let me know through a _review or a PM_! **

**THANK YOU!**


	17. Chapter 16 - Before

**Author's Note:**

 **Two words:**

 _ **I'm sorry!**_ **I know this was supposed to be up last week, but I totally underestimated the sheer amount of time and energy it takes to move house.**

 **To be honest, I kind of considered this to be a bit 'filler-y', so I decided to experiment with a new writing style simply because I _could_. So yes, I did learn something about myself this week: I do _not_ like writing in first-person POV after all. So if this chapter was awful for you, don't worry, because I'm not touching first-person with a ten foot long pole ever _again_. (I'm also currently working on that one-shot from the previous chapter, but not sure when that will be up.)**

 **As always, constructive criticism or just a stray comment to make my day are welcome, and please favourite/follow if you liked it!**

Reply to dvltgr: Aww~ That's so sweet. I've always wanted to put more Royai in this, so the last chapter made me very happy. And to answer your question, I've always imagined Roy and Riza to be around two or three years apart in age (which may not make a whole lot of sense since this means Riza would only be ten when he's thirteen). I was actually a little surprised when I checked the wikia(research) and discovered that they weren't the same age.

Reply to Guest: Thank you so much! :)) That's why Royai is still hands down my favourite anime/manga ship even after so long.

Reply to Red: Firstly, it honestly touches me to see such a long review - I'm not even kidding! I'd admit parts of it left me giggling uncontrollably (especially when you point out that I've been - unintentionally - beating Roy up throughout this whole fiasco), and one point I simply can't get out of my head is when you said 'Idealistic Roy may be, but not unrealistic', which I completely agree with... Thank you! It's awesome to know that I haven't toiled away at this monster of a fic for naught! XD **  
**

* * *

 _Chapter 16 – Before_

 _ **~ E ~**_

The weather outside was annoyingly sunny the day they decided to discharge me, roughly a week after returning from the desert plains of Ishval.

I stood in the brightly-lit cafeteria on the ground floor of East City General Hospital, irritably scratching at the edge of my plaster cast. The itch didn't recede, so I scowled at the form of my right arm hanging uselessly in a white sling.

I've had my fair share of broken bones throughout my State Alchemist years, but it didn't make this one any less annoying.

"Brother, you know you shouldn't scratch." A whispery voice sounded in my ear, warming my skin with his hot breath.

I turned my head, wincing as I unintentionally stretched the half-dozen cuts and minor injuries I'd sustained. My golden eyes locked with my younger brother's stern gaze.

Alphonse simply raised an eyebrow, and I could tell that he was not impressed. I gritted my teeth and stopped scratching, turning back to focus on the line in front of the drinks counter.

The man in front of me moved away with a Styrofoam cup in hand, and I sidled up to the counter, leaning my good arm on its cold surface. The attendant looked up from scribbling frantically on a scrap of paper and grinned widely. "Edward Elric! I _did_ hear you were in town again. I wasn't expecting you to be back so soon."

He gestured to the white walls of the hospital to accentuate his point, and I couldn't help but crack a smile at his joke. "Neither did I." I answered honestly – really, I thought I'd given up my frequent visits to the ER when I handed in my silver pocketwatch.

The lady behind us coughed loudly, and I felt obliged to hurry up with my order. "I would like a –"

I froze as the buzz of faint voices drifted to my ears.

 _"…Good morning Amestris and welcome to Radio Capital! Now, the hot topic going on nowadays is the enactment of the Ishvalan Restoration Program…"_

My first instinct was to leap right over the counter, but instead I settled for the halfway point – surging forwards and gesturing at the radio perched on the shelf above a silver coffee machine. "Could you turn up the volume on that?"

A flash of confusion manifested on the attendant's face.

By now Alphonse was by my side as well, and the urgency in my tone was reflected in his expression. " _Please?"_

The attendant blinked at him, and I was once again reminded that only a handful of people were familiar with Alphonse's human body. "Uh sure, of course."

He turned and reached up, fiddling with the knob on the ancient radio set. The voice boomed through the rusty speakers, now amplified tenfold.

 _"…Fuhrer Grumman, first allow me to say that it's an honour to be interviewing you."_

 _"Ah yes, allow me to say that the pleasure is all mine."_

Fuhrer President Grumman laughed heartily, the sound a whooshing burst of static through the radio.

The host interviewing him gave a polite chuckle in response, as people do when they weren't quite sure how to deal with the most powerful man in Amestris. _"Once again, thank you for taking out the time to answer our questions. Just a brief recap for listeners who haven't been paying attention to the news – as of this morning, Fuhrer Grumman has officially signed what people are calling the '_ Treaty of Ishval _' in the presence of the Ishvalan Grand Cleric himself. This treaty is the formal government approval of military and humanitarian efforts to restore Ishval, as well as a promise of peace to surviving Ishvalan citizens. Am I right, Fuhrer Grumman?"_

 _"Absolutely."_

The lady behind us coughed a little louder into a clenched fist. I instantly snapped out of my daze and smiled apologetically at the long line of waiting customers glaring at us two insolent teenagers. "Sorry about that. Two hot chocolates please."

"Gotcha, that'll be 400 cenz."

I swiftly handed him the money and told him to keep the change, sliding over to the other side of the counter so I could listen to the radio broadcast without being disturbed.

" _…you'll forgive me sir, that not many of us can remember much of the civil war in Ishval. I was barely a teenager myself, but I do recall it was a very bloody affair."_

 _"Yes, it was. And a very grievous one too. Whatever reasons the military had for its war efforts does not excuse the fact that we have destroyed what was once a beautiful place flourishing with culture. When I took office, I made a promise that I would commit all my efforts to the wellbeing of every last Amestrian citizen, and it was brought to my attention that the people of Ishval are still part of our great nation. They are a minority who have been wrongly treated, and have lived in the shadows for long enough. Now I pledge to return their homeland to them – newly rebuilt and reinstated."_ Grumman's tone was as meaningful as it was sombre, and I immediately understood why the colonel had once commented that the older man was an excellent politician.

Who knew how much of what he'd just said was true, but it _sounded_ genuine, and that was all Amestris cared about.

Even the radio presenter sounded touched, and had to steady himself with the shuffling of papers before he said his next words: " _There are concerns however, that Ishvalans, when returned to general society, may pose a threat to our security. I mean no offense by this, but hasn't the military cautioned us that these people are rebels and terrorists? How are you planning to soothe these fears?"_

 _"It's true that many outbreaks have happened in the past, but purely because we, Amestris, have never made any effort to reconcile with the Ishvalans. I sincerely hope that the Ishvalan Restoration Program will serve to smoothen out these creases of dissent, and prove to those who are sceptical of our motives that our only true objective here is to right a terrible wrong."_

 _"So you admit it then? That the military_ has _committed a wrong?"_

 _"As much as it pains me to say this, military high command has been a corrupted entity for quite some time. But as you know, five months ago, myself and some brave comrades have risen against these corrupted officers when they attempted to assume power by force, and I am firm in my opinion that our ranks have been fully purged. We are now a new government, and a new country, determined to undo the damage once done. And the Program is a very important step in achieving this, so I urge the people of Amestris to give us their full support."_

I leaned in closer, the hard edge of the counter pressing into my belly as I eagerly devoured every last word and sentence uttered.

 _"Yes Fuhrer Grumman, I completely agree with you. One final question – when you mentioned 'comrades', I assume you're also referring to the notorious Flame Alchemist, Colonel Roy Mustang?"_

The mention of the familiar name made me flinch, but Grumman merely chuckled lightly. _"I expect I am. You're a very perceptive young man."_

 _"There have been stories going around the media that Colonel Mustang is...shall I say the man behind the planning and initiation of the Ishvalan Restoration Program. I'm certain our listeners would dearly like to hear the Fuhrer himself verify that claim."_

 _"Indeed. Colonel Mustang was the very person who first brought the matters of Ishval to my attention, and I entrusted him with full authority over its preliminary stages."_

 _"Then I am sure the people of Amestris are curious as to why he wasn't present during the public signing of the treaty at Central Command this morning?"_

I found myself holding my breath even before the question was fully phrased, waiting to see what truth or lie the Fuhrer would tell.

But like any great politician, he told neither. _"I'm afraid I cannot reveal the details of Colonel Mustang's work in the East, but I can assure you he is wholly and fully committed to the Program and has voiced his disappointment that he was unable to make the trip."_

Well, perhaps that last part was a bit of a lie.

The radio host seemed disappointed that he hadn't been able to flesh out juicier content regarding the Flame Colonel. _"Thank you once again for your time, Fuhrer Grumman. Ladies and gentleman, this is Radio Capital bringing to you live from Central City…"_

The closing statement and ending notes were but a blur in my mind. I looked down, only then noticing the two paper cups sitting near my elbow – perhaps the attendant hadn't been able to fully catch my attention, or was reluctant to.

I struggled to grab them as the radio started spluttering out the newest hit song, and Al reached over to take one of the cups.

I nodded my thanks at him and sampled a mouthful of my chocolate.

"It's great, isn't it?" Al commented, sighing blissfully as he sipped tentatively at his own cup.

"The chocolate?"

"No, the fact that the Ishvalan Restoration Program is finally official." He grinned at me, the happiest he's looked in a week. "I'm sure they'll be happy."

Al's moods were very contagious, and I couldn't help but smile myself. "Shall we let Lieutenant Hawkeye know the good news?"

Alphonse nodded eagerly, and we continued to make meaningless conversation as we strode quickly out of the cafeteria, pointedly ignoring the soft mutters and mumbles of discussion from the people still waiting in line, or the diners eating at the tables.

The radio had been cranked up loud enough for at least half of the cafeteria to have heard the broadcast, and for the citizens of East City, gossiping about their long time resident Flame was an ability everyone seemed to take pride in.

Was he a hypocrite? A scam? A liar? A saint? People couldn't quite seem to be able to make up their minds. Wasn't it ironic that the Hero of Ishval, the one person who had single-handedly taken hundreds, perhaps thousands of Ishvalan lives, had now become their saviour?

A political play, maybe? A genuine show of remorse? An ulterior motive?

I exchanged glances with my brother as we made our way through the glass double doors and towards the elevator.

But we knew the truth.

Yes we do.

* * *

 _ **~ A ~**_

I've always been the carer, the guardian angel, the one who's supposed to make everything better.

When our mother died, I held back my tears for fear that brother would spiral even further into the depths of despair. I would smile even if I felt like crying, trying my best to give him the encouragement and support he needed to keep on going.

When he decided to bring mother back, I went along with it, because I was his little brother, and I'd sworn to mother that I would take care of him as he took care of me.

When we lost our bodies and he decided to become a State Alchemist, I followed him to Central, because I knew that he needed someone to protect him in that chaotic world of double-meanings and veiled threats.

When we decided to join the final battle against Father, and when he was on the very brink of death, I sacrificed my soul for his arm, because I'd rather I die than he.

Some people would argue that I have always been defined in terms of my brother. But I sincerely disagree.

If anything, I think Edward has always been defined in terms of _me_.

It doesn't matter though, because I don't mind, and neither does he. After everything we've been through together, we've become used to being known as the 'Elric brothers' – a unit, a combined entity, a package deal. Sort of a buy-one-get-one-free bargain, although I've had many arguments with brother regarding who was the 'bought' one and who was the 'free' one.

Ironically, this brotherhood which invigorates me, is the very same one which frustrates me. Because more often than not, there are many situations where I can do nothing to help him.

Even back then, I knew he was a self-blamer – he'd blamed himself for dear mother's death, blamed himself for my empty shell of a body, and now he was blaming himself for what happened last week in Ishval.

And it hurt because the only thing I _could_ do was watch.

I watched as he stared at the closed door to the hospital room, hesitating as he always did when we came by.

I watched as he stretched out his good hand to knock, only to withdraw it almost instantaneously as if the door were a blazing hot slab of metal.

I watched as he turned his head to look at me uncertainly, his molten eyes rippling with turmoil. Most of the people closest to us had at one point or another reproached Edward for his quick temper and inability to subdue his emotions – but I think we all knew he kept the most painful ones buried deep.

I was tired of watching, so I nodded at him and raised my own hand, clenching my fingers into a fist.

I knocked softly on the door.

There was a series of rustles and a mysterious scuffling, before First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye pulled open the sliding door.

I barely caught a glimpse of her long hair, let down to her shoulders, and the casual turtleneck and jeans she'd donned instead of her military uniform, before a peculiarly-shaped shadow fell over us.

My sense of danger was much more developed than my brother's, so I immediately sidestepped the furry lightning bolt of black and white.

Edward simply shouted in surprise as Black Hayate streaked past me and proceeded to launch himself cheerfully at his favourite golden-haired alchemist.

There was a mighty crash which seemed to shake the very walls as Ed collided with the tiled floor in a most undignified manner. Black Hayate barked excitedly at his newly captured quarry, tongue lolling and tail wagging.

Ed swiped dog saliva from his face and howled: "Why does this _always_ happen to me?"

I tried to decide between wincing or laughing, and ended up performing a weird combination of both.

Edward glared at me from underneath the energized canine. "It's not funny!"

My self-control instantly dissipated into smoke and I burst into a barrage of giggles. "It kinda is, brother."

"Hayate, _no._ " At a stern command from his master, Black Hayate whined in reluctance, rewarded Ed with a sloppy lick on the face, and jumped off his chest.

He trotted back to settle himself down obediently at Hawkeye's feet, panting smugly.

Edward moaned and sat up, rubbing his head.

"Sorry about that," apologized Hawkeye, a hint of a smile lingering on her lips. I stared, because I couldn't remember her actually _smiling_ since a week ago.

Edward glared ferociously at her dog. But even the Fullmetal Alchemist knew it was stupid to hold a grudge against a pet, so he shrugged and climbed awkwardly to his feet. "It's fine. That happens…a lot."

I turned away and sniggered softly into my hand, eliciting another searing glare from my brother.

Several nurses and patients were already giving us curious glances, so Hawkeye stepped back and gestured for us to come in. "Let's talk inside."

"I thought pets weren't allowed in hospitals?" I asked once Hawkeye had shut the door behind us, a bit miffed because the nurses had always made me turn out my cats.

I definitely didn't miss the days of being a soul stranded in an empty metal body, but it's such a shame that I have nowhere to house the poor kitties I come across in the rain anymore.

Hawkeye seated herself on a foldable chair next to the window. "The colonel and I were stationed in East City for a good many years, so we…come here very often. The staff knows us well, and were kind enough to let me have Black Hayate."

Hayate yipped and leapt onto her lap, settling himself down in her arms. "I assume you've just been discharged, Edward?" she smiled kindly at him, observing the change from his ugly hospital garments to his customary black attire.

Ed nodded. "Yeah…They finally decided to let me off the hook."

Hawkeye ran her hands down the length of Hayate's furry body. "I suppose you'll be buying tickets back to Resembool as soon as possible?"

The smile on her face didn't waver, though now it had frozen and fixed itself in an unnatural way. The look in her eyes was meaningful – words were rarely necessary when it came to the lieutenant, for she seemed to have a way of communicating with silent pauses and strict gazes alone.

I looked down at my feet, closely examining every crease and stain on my filthy shoes. "We…um…"

I glanced up at my brother for support, but he had already drifted away, staring down at the occupant of the sole bed in the spacious hospital room.

Not many people were right about Colonel Roy Mustang, but if there was one thing anyone could see about him, it was that he was constantly, perpetually… _involved._ I still thought of him as the epicentre of a brewing storm – no, a _cyclone_ – there always seemed to be something going on around him, some juicy bit of chaos or some interesting conversation or some devilish plot to get back at Fullmetal for raiding his peppermint stash.

He kidnapped every conversation, delved into every scheme, stole every limelight. He was a constant hub of restless activity, and as Edward had so callously remarked – life was never boring with the colonel in the vicinity.

Which was what made thisso unnerving.

For it was nearly impossible to comprehend that _this_ person, lying so still and silent against the white sheets, hooked up to half a dozen tubes and wires which seemed to sprout from him like an infectious disease, was the exact same one as _that_ person.

I watched.

His breaths were slow and deep, fogging up the oxygen mask which pumped air into dormant lungs every so often. I'd never noticed how pale his skin was in contrast to his tangle of black hair.

The colonel didn't even seem _asleep_ , for I'd spent many years watching my brother do just that from the confines of my unslumbering armour – there was no mumble of some distant dream, no twitch of a nightmare, no soft moan and twisting over to snuggle into a more comfortable position.

He was just… _there_. Existing, but not actually _being_.

It was disorientating to see someone who was always so involved become so detached.

Edward reached out, faltered, and turned away like the sight alone pained him. There was a strange expression on his face, as if he was torn between yelling dirty insults until the colonel woke up from pure annoyance, and letting his superior officer slumber because, honestly, he'd never looked so _peaceful_.

And suddenly, I didn't want to watch anymore. I averted my eyes and met Hawkeye's amber gaze unflinchingly. "We aren't going home. At least, not yet."

Ed strode around the bed and laid a hand on my shoulder. We looked at each other, and I could see the approval in his eyes.

The day we left Resembool to return to Central seemed a lifetime ago, but our purpose remained as clear as crystal. We came here to make everything better, and it just didn't seem right to leave when everything was a million times worse.

We weren't going home until we found a way to rouse the colonel from his unrelenting sleep. We weren't going home until we figured out a way to help him reclaim what he had lost.

Hawkeye sighed deeply, already expecting our response. "There's nothing more the two of you can do here. So go home – Ed, Al," she raised her eyes, and I could almost sense her throwing her trump card. "Besides, Winry and Granny Pinako must be concerned about you."

I winced at that, but remained firm. Edward hadn't called Winry since he was admitted to the hospital. He hated lying to her, but even more than that, he hated making her worry – so how could he ever voluntarily tell her that he'd gotten hurt again?

Ed pursed his lips, rubbing the shoulder of his broken arm. "We came to tell you some good news," he perked up and grinned, though the gesture seemed more artificial than natural. "We heard on the radio that the Ishvalan Restoration Program officially has the Fuhrer's go-ahead."

I could see in Hawkeye's all-knowing gaze that she was well aware we were trying to change the subject. She shook her head in vague amusement as she decided to play along. "I'd almost forgotten that it was today. Havoc dropped by to tell me about it on his way back to Sersa," she patted Hayate's head fondly. "He also picked up Black Hayate for me."

I nodded. The team had split up again, the day right after we'd arrived at East City. After ensuring that his man from Briggs was going to make a full recovery, Major Miles and Scar had returned to Sersa to continue the peace talks with the Grand Cleric (I was ashamed to realize that in all the confusion and chaos I'd nearly forgotten that the discussions were never concluded). Hawkeye had sent Fuery and Falman with them as Mustang's 'representatives', while Breda and Havoc had to clean up the investigative efforts regarding the colonel's abduction.

Edward had expressed Mustang's wishes about keeping the entire incident as low key as possible, and the two second lieutenants seemed perfectly experienced in quietly tying up loose ends. I presumed that they'd returned to Central to hand in their report, only to head straight back to Sersa to help Falman and Fuery wrap up their work.

And throughout all this, Hawkeye had remained in East City – because well, where else would she be?

Our attention was drawn away by the sound of Black Hayate's whimpering. The dog was morosely scratching at the door, thumping his tail against the floor as he did so.

"I think he wants a walk," commented Edward, stating the obvious.

"He doesn't like to be cooped up for too long." Hawkeye sighed and stood, gathering Hayate up in her arms. She hesitated at the door.

"We'll stay here until you come back." I offered almost automatically, knowing that Hawkeye's unvarying presence by the colonel's bedside was due to her belief he still needed protection from _something_.

I wasn't about to disagree, considering everything he'd been through.

Reassured, Hawkeye nodded her thanks and pulled open the door.

I wasn't sure what possessed me in that fragile moment, but just before she stepped outside, I blurted: "Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye turned. "Yes, Al?"

I let my eyes drop to my lap, watching my fingers twist and entangle. "I…I hope he gets better soon."

Hawkeye smiled softly, but my words did nothing to drive away the sorrow in her eyes. The door slid shut, and I stared at its white and empty expanse.

Ed trudged around me and plonked himself down on Hawkeye's vacated chair, tinkering absently with his automail leg.

I sighed and buried my head in my hands – I was always the carer, the guardian angel, the _watcher_. But I was tired of watching. I was tired of not knowing what to do.

The silence was deafening, and yet it wasn't silence at all – there were the soft beeps of the heart rate monitor; the whispery _whoosh_ of the whirring ventilator; the distant taps outside the window.

A bird perhaps, or the first raindrops of an encroaching storm? I didn't raise my head to look, simply because I didn't really care anymore.

The tapping continued, like fingers on glass – _tap, tap, tap._

Then it stopped, and there was the telltale sound of the window being awkwardly slid open.

"Come on! Do you know how _difficult_ it is to open a window from the outside?"

My head snapped around on its own volition at the suspiciously familiar voice.

The curtains billowed and fluttered, sweeping away at a stray breeze to reveal a face outside the open glass pane. The teenage boy dangling from our windowsill raised a hand in mock parody of a military salute. "Hello there, Elric brothers!"

My jaw promptly dropped open at the sight of someone at our window – which is, for the record, _three stories aboveground._

Ling Yao – illegal entrant, once-homunculus, prince (potential future emperor?) of Xing, and the only person we knew in definite possession of an existing Philosopher's Stone – grinned widely at our shocked expressions.

"Well? Aren't you going to invite me in?"

In response, Edward promptly yanked off his boot and slugged it at his grinning face.

The shoe bounced off Ling's forehead and ricocheted back into the room. The Xingese noble disappeared out of sight with an ensuing yelp of pain.

It took me a full second to recover from my surprise and jerk to my feet.

" _Brother!_ You just _killed_ him!"

"It's _his_ fault for scaring the hell out of me first!"

* * *

 _ **~ L ~**_

I love Amestris. It's my absolute favourite tourist spot.

For starters, there's the countless border skirmishes and the senseless genocides which, get this – are all for the sake of creating a huge-ass transmutation circle meant to harvest the souls of every living human in the country.

Then there's the sights – the soot-covered streets, the smoke-filled cities, the homunculi trying to stick a sword in your throat around every corner.

Then there's the secrets – State Alchemists, Philosopher's Stones, corrupted governments, near-immortal beings. You know, the like.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

There's a lot to dislike about Amestris, especially for a foreigner from across the great desert, but stick around a bit longer and you'll find green pastures, rolling fields of golden wheat, lakes as blue as the skies they reflected.

What's my favourite part of Amestris, you ask?

Well, the people, of course.

For where else in the world can you find such a bizarre congregation of eccentric alchemists, flamethrower colonels, talking armours, and runts who blow up after being called a runt?

And for this, I was not at all dismayed to be back. In fact, I was ecstatic.

Edward Elric looked a little less so, unfortunately.

I perched casually on the edge of the windowsill, smoothly keeping my balance as I redid my ponytail. Lan Fan – _ah_ , my avenging angel, my trusted vassal – hoisted herself up to crouch next to me after having rescued her prince from a boot in the head.

"Not so happy to see me then, Edward?"

I launched myself into the hospital room, landing lightly on the colourless tiles and performing a dramatic pirouette just because I could.

"Young master." In a swish of black fabric, Lan Fan was at my side, words muffled by the intricate mask she insisted on wearing. "Perhaps we should have taken the door?"

"Well, at least _one_ of you has a bit of what we Amestrians call _common sense_." Edward Elric struggled to cross his arms, a vein throbbing dangerously in his temple. It was pretty difficult to look intimidating when one had an arm in a sling, but the Fullmetal Alchemist accomplished it perfectly. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE, LING!? AND WHY DIDN'T YOU USE THE GODDAMNED _DOOR!?_ "

"How did you know we were here?" asked Alphonse Elric, a dazed look upon his face. The last time I had caught a glimpse of the younger Elric, he'd been a cluster of skeletal bones held together by fraying skin, so it was quite pleasing to see him as a normal, healthy boy of fifteen.

I shrugged. "Trust me, it wasn't easy. But rumours have been going around the further reaches of the East, and they led me here."

"No, I mean – how did you know we were in this _room_?"

"Oh, that was quite by accident, believe me. I was looking for Colonel Mustang. The receptionist at the counter told me his room number – nice girl, by the way. You Amestrians are all so nice!"

Al pressed a hand to his eyes, as if trying to convince himself that this was all just some kind of crazy hallucination. "So you…went inside…asked for the room number, and came back out again to scale the wall?"

When put in that context, it did sound pretty strange.

I shrugged again. "Surprise?"

Edward took in a breath, and I could tell by the red in his cheeks that he was preparing to start shouting _really_ loudly.

I was rescued by the most unexpected person.

" _Sir Alphonse!_ "

A streak of petal pink flashed past me as May Chang, princess of Xing, bounded happily from the window and launched herself at Al.

Alphonse barely had two seconds to react before May Chang had her slight arms wrapped around him in a rib-crushing hug. "Sir Alphonse, it's so wonderful to see you!"

Now it was Ed's turn to drop his jaw.

Al flapped his hand in the air in what was either a dying plea for help or an attempt to pat May Chang's back reassuringly. "I can't…breathe…"

"Oh! Forgive me, Sir Al!" May Chang detached herself from the golden-eyed boy and took a step back, twirling a braid around her finger bashfully. "It's just…it's been so long…And you look –" The Xingese girl seemed to brace herself, blushing as crimson as a rose. "You look as handsome as you said you would be!"

Alphonse blinked in shock, before clasping a hand to his heart. "I…Oh…No one's ever said that to me…"

While Al stared blissfully into thin air, Edward looked like he was about to blow his top. "Wait, does this mean that _I_ am not good-looking?"

"Of course you aren't, bad-tempered-heart-breaker-alchemist-runt!" May Chang stuck out her tongue and pulled a face at Edward. As if in complete agreement, Xiao Mei chose that exact moment to pop out of May Chang's pack, the miniature panda growling in agreement.

"WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY, YOU PANDA TOTING MIDGET!?"

The door slammed open. " _Quiet!"_

Three Xingese illegal immigrants plus two Elric brothers all turned around in perfect unison, May Chang frozen in the action of pulling out her kunai while Edward was half-prepared to lunge at her.

The tall lady wearing a nurse's uniform – the same nurse who always gave Edward extra chocolate pudding when he was miserable – had never looked so intimidating. "Do you children have any respect at all for our patients? Now get out of here _right this instant!_ "

To her credit, she didn't ask how the room's occupants had mysteriously doubled.

I glanced guiltily over at the hospital bed, but Colonel Roy Mustang remained tenaciously unconscious, his eyes shut and breathing unchanged. He reminded me eerily of the porcelain china dolls from my home country – frozen and deathly pale.

He'd not so much as twitched at our racket, and I was beginning to wonder if _anything_ would be able to wake him.

Then I felt my hand drop to the pocket of my pants – pure energy pulsed against my palm, even with a layer of fabric and another layer of glass in between _it_ and my skin.

I shivered involuntarily and withdrew my hand.

 _Ah, yes._

I was reminded of my purpose for coming here.

The nurse was quick to kick us out, despite the Elric brothers' pleas that we would be quiet from now on. I simply folded my arms behind my head and whistled innocently – after all, most of the shouting had been done by Edward, not me.

We ended up stranded in the corridor outside the room, passing doctors and visitors giving us cursory glances as Al sulked and Ed fumed.

Edward lowered his head, letting his bangs swing into his eyes, then threw it back up again, heaving a mighty sigh. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked softly.

I smiled enigmatically and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from my pocket. "What are you talking about? You _asked_ me to come."

I smoothed out the creases and displayed it proudly in front of Ed's face.

Edward's golden eyes went wide. "That's – that's the letter I sent you before we left for Sersa."

He made a grab for it, scanning its contents as if to refresh his memory. "But I never specifically _asked_ you to travel all the way to Amestris. I was merely enquiring whether we could borrow your Philosopher's Stone for a transmutation."

"Same thing." I smirked, plunged my hand into my pocket, and produced a bottle half-filled with glowing scarlet fluid.

The Elric brothers stared at the Philosopher's Stone I had so callously displayed, and I could have sworn their golden eyes grew a full shade darker.

"That godforsaken thing," whispered Ed. He turned his head away and laughed dryly. "Goddamn it, Squinty-Eyes. I never asked – I never wanted you –"

I closed my fingers around the vial, dampening its unearthly red glow. Even after having housed the homunculus Greed, it was still hard to believe that the object I held in my hand was a product of human souls. "Your letter sounded urgent." I answered, voice just as soft. "And since my clan's position in Xing is basically secured…I thought I'd drop in and say hello."

I paused, expression turning dour. "I guess it's a good thing I set off as soon as I could."

Edward Elric clenched his fists and looked away.

After the events of the Promised Day, I'd gone home to Xing with the knowledge that Amestris was (relatively) intact and the Elrics had regained (most of) their bodies.

What had happened, between then and now, which had brought the haunted look back into the shining brothers' eyes, and had caused both Edward Elric and Roy Mustang to wind up in the hospital, one broken and the other comatose?

But the expression on Edward's face was clearly screaming at me not to ask.

It was difficult to gauge my relationship with this young un-alchemist and his little brother, especially since I'd interacted with them as both myself and as Greed. But his hastily written letter was enough to get me off my ass and on an impromptu trip to Amestris, so I was pretty sure I _did_ consider myself his friend.

And as a friend, I decided not to ask.

Instead, I merely offered him the Philosopher's Stone resting in my palm, just as I had when Al was a shattered and soulless suit of armour lying on the ground all those months ago. Edward hadn't accepted my help then, but perhaps he would now.

"Use this to heal both him and his sight." I flashed Ed my best shit-eating grin. "That's why you wanted it in the first place, isn't it?"

Edward simply stared at the glimmering outline of the Stone. "Are you sure about this?"

My grin widened into my customary happy-go-lucky smile. "Nah, no worries. _One_ transmutation isn't going to be a loss to me."

Ed cocked his head, his expression two-thirds perplexed and one-third baffled.

"That's what friends are for, right?" I teased. "Borrowing Philosopher's Stones?"

Slowly, very slowly, the corners of Edward's mouth curved up in a small smile. "How nice. I guess I never really knew that you considered me a friend."

I swatted a hand through the air, mimicking an air of dramatic bashfulness. "Besides, Colonel Mustang helped us once when Lan Fan was injured. And," my smile sharpened. "It wouldn't hurt for the person who may one day become the most powerful man in Amestris to owe me a… _favour_."

Edward's eyes widened slightly, and I winked at him conspiratorially. "It's hard to miss the flame of ambition." I tapped my temple. "I guess great minds think alike."

Ed shook his head and scoffed disdainfully. "You politicians and your parlour tricks."

"So are you going to take it, or no?" I raised an eyebrow, the glowing vial rolling back and forth sluggishly on the slightly curved shape of my open palm.

Edward clenched his jaw, and I wondered what was taking him so long to make up his mind. His golden eyes flashed, and finally, he simply sighed, a sarcastic smile on his face. "I can't. Not now, anyway."

Whatever answer I'd been expecting, it was _not_ this.

I blinked, too dumbfounded to locate the right words. Part of me wanted to erupt into a hailstorm of Xingese swear-words, but the more dignified part hammered some much needed sense into me.

"Why?" I squeezed out, managing to control my tone.

"Because…I'd be going behind the colonel's back." Edward rubbed his neck and heaved an even bigger sigh. "He's turned down the Stone before, and I…I just want this to be done because it's _right_ , not because _I_ think it's right."

I raised an eyebrow at this, and Ed waved a hand at me. "I know, I'm not making any sense."

"No, it's just –" I turned away to hide my smirk. "That's awfully _mature_ of you, Edward."

"What?" Ed bit back haughtily. "Are you saying I'm _not_ mature most of the time?"

"Effectively…yes."

At Edward's murderous glare, I promptly wiped the amusement off my face.

"Look, just…give me a few more days, okay? Until Mustang wakes up and I can talk him into voluntarily using the Stone to regain his sight." Edward scratched the side of his head.

"When you say 'talk', I do hope that doesn't include yelling and threats and physical violence," deadpanned Alphonse, though there was just the hint of a smile in his voice.

"Jesus, Al. Have a bit more faith in me."

May Chang snorted in disdain at this, which evicted a similar snort from both Xiao Mei and (to a lesser degree) Lan Fan. I clamped a hand over my mouth, trying not to break down into hysterical giggles.

"Hey, it's your call." With all the gravity I could muster while trying to disguise my laughter as hacking coughs, I pocketed the vial, feeling its throbbing warmth against my thigh. "I'm heading over to Central to see the Fuhrer next – man, this would have been so much easier if I could get a word in with Colonel Mustang – but diplomatic relations and a trading agreement with Amestris awaits!"

"I thought you were here because of my letter?" asked Edward, stunned with realization.

"It's a kill two birds with one stone thing, Ed. After all, a prince – whose position has just been elevated to first in line to the throne, I may add – should always be thinking about the wellbeing of his country." I put two fingers to my forehead in a mock goodbye. "I'll swing round back to East City in a few days, so make sure you have a decision made by then."

May Chang's entire face fell. "Can't I stay with Sir Alphonse?"

"You're here as a diplomat too. If I'm not allowed to slack off, you aren't either."

Lan Fan coughed politely and stared at me meaningfully. "My prince? Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Oh yes, thank you for reminding me." I patted down my largely empty pockets and shrugged sheepishly. "Ed, do you mind borrowing me some cash? You know, for travel expenses?"

Edward's face went red and I immediately regretted asking that question. "YOU'RE ALMOST POTENTIALLY FRICKIN' EMPEROR NOW AND YOU DON'T HAVE _MONEY!?_ "

"Hey, different currency." I defended.

"FIGURE SOMETHING OUT YOURSELF!" Ed huffed. "Stop eating out of my damn pocket, you poor excuse of a –"

Before Edward could properly finish insulting me however, Lan Fan's kunai slipped silently out from her sleeves, and the menacing glint in her eyes was apparently enough to make Ed second-guess his choice of wording.

Al, for one, seemed a bit more sympathetic. "Brother, what if he ends up passed out on the streets again?"

"Yes Edward, you wouldn't let your _dear old friend_ die of hunger, would you?"

"Just watch me, Squinty –"

" _EDWARD ELRIC!_ "

All of those present jumped at the sudden booming voice.

I whirled around, one hand already on the hilt of my Dao, senses prickling at the possibility of a looming threat.

My brain couldn't quite comprehend what – no, _who_ – was barrelling towards us at full speed.

For one, he was monstrously big, fair, and had a ridiculous blonde handlebar moustache. The very foundations of the building shook every time his heavy boots hit the tiles, and velvet petals flailed from the bouquet of roses he was waving around in one hand.

Then I saw the pretty pink sparkles clattering off stunned bystanders and remembered where I'd seen this dude before.

I turned, about to ask Ed what one of his military friends was doing here, only to stop at the absolutely _terrified_ expression on the Fullmetal Alchemist's face.

Edward swallowed. "Al?"

"Yes, brother?" Alphonse's golden eyes were wide, and he appeared to be sweating.

" _RUN!_ "

Now my brain really was going into overload, because was Edward Elric actually _scared?_ I swivelled back around, determined to be the model Xing diplomat and give this officer my best greeting, when said officer dramatically tore off his tweed jacket and shirt, displaying the most…exceptionally sculpted musculature I've ever seen.

I gawked, and wisely decided to sidestep the charging man as he swooped past me and scooped Edward up in his arms before the Elric even had the chance to make a break for it.

Major Alex Louis Armstrong crushed the younger alchemist in a powerful embrace which could easily fracture bones and snap cartilage. "Young Edward Elric! How miraculous an encounter this is!"

Edward gurgled a strangled response as his face was pressed mercilessly into those lovingly tended biceps.

Meanwhile, Alphonse was trying to stealthily creep away to avoid Ed's unfortunate fate, but Armstrong's eyes were sharper than most people gave him credit for. "Oh my! Is that young Alphonse? I barely even recognize you!"

Al squeaked in fright as the major dropped his brother to the ground and picked him up like a rag doll. "How you shine with good vigour, Alphonse! The very epitome of a healthy teenage boy!"

No longer protected by his suit-of-armour body, Alphonse looked like he was being asphyxiated by a ten foot tall bear – a very emotional bear with glittering pixie dust and spectacularly shining tears. "My heart bursts seeing you adjusting so well to your normal body! How long and arduous your journey has been, Elric brothers. It is a fairytale come true, a happy ending which touches me to the very roots of my soul!"

Sprawled on the ground, Edward raised a hand weakly. "Al…I'll…save…you…"

After deeming that both brothers had sufficiently basked in the glory of his artistic physique, the Strong Arm Alchemist set Alphonse back on his feet. "When I heard you brothers were in Central two weeks ago, you can imagine my regret that I was on an assignment at the time and was unable to give you the warm welcome you deserve. But fate is kind to us, Elric brothers, for we meet again under such unexpected circumstances!"

Alphonse shuddered once. "It's…great to see you too, Major Armstrong."

The tall major beamed, sparkling so much with joy that it hurt my eyes to look at him. "You'll also be pleased to hear that I ran into your good friend in Central. She seemed troubled as she could not locate you, so I suggested that you brothers may very well be in East City. Such a fair young lady she is, so elegant and beautiful. You're a lucky man, Edward Elric!"

Ed jolted upright from where he'd been lying on the ground. "Wait, _who?_ "

"Ah, here she comes right now."

A young girl with her golden hair pulled back in a swishing ponytail was just rounding the corner.

Hers was a familiar face, though I'd only met her a handful of times. Her head was lowered, her expression drenched in shadow, but if the large wrench she clutched in one hand was anything to go by, her intentions for being here were…less than friendly.

I just had time to recall the name _Winry Rockbell_ before she raised her head, cornflower blue eyes spitting fiery sparks. She swung back her wrench as if to fling it like a champion discus-thrower.

I jerked back at the intensity of her glare, and in my panic, held up my hands in surrender. "Whatever it was, Greed made me do it!"

The wrench pinwheeled past my face in a circle of silver light.

I heard a dull _thwack!_ and a cry of pain.

Spinning around, I stared as Edward collapsed back onto the white tiles, his forehead bloody from where the wrench had connected with his skull.

"Brother!" Alphonse shouted in terror.

"You're such an _idiot_ , Edward Elric!" Winry Rockbell yelled at the top of her lungs, and the only thing I could think of was 'were all these people _trying_ to destroy the hospital?'.

Ed was too thoroughly knocked out by her wrench to respond.

As I watched, jaw agape, the blue-eyed mechanic twirled on her heel and stormed back the way she came, apparently too furious to say anything else.

I exchanged an astonished glance with Lan Fan.

"I guess Amestris is as insane as ever." I commented to no one in particular.

* * *

 _ **~ A ~**_

I honestly hadn't seen that coming.

"Brother!" I called, voice rising in anxiety as I shook him by the collar. "Brother, are you alright?"

"Ouch, ouch, ouch, _Al_." Ed moaned pitifully and clutched his injured head. "Was that…Winry?"

I snapped my head up to check the corridor, but save for the shocked expressions of several bystanders, Winry was noticeably missing. "I think she…ran off."

I helped my brother sit up against the wall as he tried to staunch the bleeding. "What's _she_ doing here in the first place?"

"Your friend said you haven't called her in a week, so she was worried." Major Armstrong supplied, looking very sympathetic indeed. "She decided to take a trip to Central City to ask around for you, but you weren't there either."

Edward stared up at the major before dropping his head into his hands. "Oh god…I'm such a horrible person, Al." He laughed once, the sound sharp and dry. "I thought we weren't going to make Winry worry anymore?"

I bit my lip. "I know, brother."

"Jeez, Ed. Are you even aware of how pathetic you look?" Ling Yao was standing over us, arms crossed in front of his chest. He stabbed a thumb in the direction Winry had gone. "Go after her."

Edward scowled. "There's no point. She'll just be even madder at me."

May Chang crouched down next to Edward, swiftly sketching an alkahestry circle on the ground and piercing a kunai on each point of the star she'd drawn. The circle lit up at her touch, a crackle of electricity snaking up to stitch together Ed's open wound.

Transmutation completed, she planted her hands on her hips primly. "Be a gentleman and go apologize!" May Chang cocked her head, expression softening. "You care about her, don't you?"

"I –" Ed pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I guess…so."

Clenching his jaw in determination, Edward stood. "Al, you stay here. I need to talk to her alone."

I nodded, not very keen on getting a wrench to the head myself.

"Such heartfelt words, Edward Elric." Major Armstrong wiped away an emotional tear. "Perhaps this will help you in your quest for this young lady's heart."

He offered Edward the bouquet of roses he'd been toting around, surreptitiously removing the get well card stuck inside.

Ed accepted the flowers awkwardly. "Thanks, major!"

With that, he sprinted down the hallway, automail clanking as he scattered a trail of red petals in his wake.

"I don't think Colonel Mustang likes flowers anyway." I remarked humorously as I watched my brother disappear around the corner. "You're here to visit him, aren't you?"

Armstrong nodded slowly, and I was a bit concerned to see that he wasn't planning on donning his clothes anytime soon. "Rumours about his absence have been going around Central…worrying rumours."

I blinked as a sudden thought struck me. "Why roses though?"

"The art of rose-tending has been passed down the Armstrong family for generations!" Major Armstrong replied brightly, not missing a beat.

I blinked a second time, suddenly wishing that I'd gone with brother. "Uh, right."

* * *

 _ **~ W ~**_

 _Idiot._

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

I swiped my sleeve angrily across my eyes, glaring at the back of my hand when it came away slightly damp. " _Idiot._ " I muttered viciously.

First he leaves Resembool – _again_. Then after one final ambiguous phone call, he just disappears off the grid – _again._

And then when I finally come looking for him and Al, I find them in a hospital, and he has one arm in a sling and his automail in shreds.

 _Again._

This was supposed to stop after they got their bodies back. He told us he wouldn't leave me and Granny Pinako anymore.

No more secrets, he'd said.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

I shouted my frustration and drove the toe of my boot into a wall, startling a flock of crows which squawked indignantly from their perches. I glared up at them, my spare wrench glinting in my hand, daring them to laugh at my sorry state.

The crows simply screeched in distaste and took to the air.

I was left alone on the winding pathway which cut around the outside of the hospital. A weather-beaten bench sat drowning in the shadows of a gnarled oak tree, and I sank down on it.

I wiped my eyes and growled to myself. I only ever cried over something concerning those two idiotic brothers. _Especially_ Ed.

"Idiot." I mumbled to myself, though I couldn't quite muster the viciousness and fury which usually accompanied that particular insult.

"Winry."

A shadow fell over me and I looked up, blinking away the last of the sting in my eyes. I glowered at his familiar face. "What are _you_ doing out here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Edward Elric rubbed the back of his neck, looking rather sheepish.

More accustomed to his expressions of rage and irritation, I found this mellower side of him startling enough that some of my burning wrath subsided. "Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

"You know I don't make excuses, Winry." His other hand snaked out from behind his back, displaying a gorgeous bouquet of red roses. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you worry, I'm sorry for not telling you what's really going on, I'm sorry I got hurt, I'm sorry I made you cry again."

I self-consciously rubbed my puffy eyes. "I wasn't crying."

He smiled slightly. "You're still such a cry-baby, Winry."

"And whose fault is that?" I narrowed my eyes, though a part of me was already melting at the mere _sight_ of those flowers. _Flowers._ I couldn't recall Edward giving me flowers ever since our childhood days.

Edward laughed guiltily, and despite myself, I marvelled at how his golden eyes glinted and shone with their very own soul-light. "Are you still mad at me?"

I eyed his automail leg, which was dented, slightly bent out of shape, and had a few parts missing. I sighed, snatching the bouquet from his hand and thrusting my nose into its velvety petals.

Their lovely fragrance washed over me, and I closed my eyes, letting my fears and unease melt away with his presence. "I'll have to smack you over letting your automail get so beat up again." I opened my eyes. "…But that can wait till later."

Ed heaved a small sigh of relief, sitting down next to me and resting his head against the back of the bench.

He stared up at the sky for a moment, watching the wispy clouds paddle past. "I'm sorry."

I bit the inside of my cheek. While my anger had dwindled, I wasn't about to tell him ' _I forgive you_ ' – no, he had to work a bit harder to earn that. "Tell me what happened. Major Armstrong said that you and Colonel Mustang were injured…I don't understand. You said everything was just fine the last time we talked."

Edward's eyes darkened. "I just didn't want you to worry, Winry."

I fisted my hands. "Stop treating me like something _fragile_ , Ed."

Edward blinked in confusion. "I don't –"

"You and Al never tell me anything. If you think you're doing me a favour by keeping me in the dark, then you're dead wrong." I kneaded the spot in between my eyebrows. "I _want_ to help, Ed. Even if it means I can't do anything but be there for you, I still want to help. Can't you just…respect that?"

Ed blinked again, stunned by my sudden outburst. Then his mouth twisted into a mischievous smile. "Fine, Winry. You said it yourself – no more keeping things from you."

Taking a breath, he settled back into a more comfortable position and started talking. I sat there with him for what seemed like minutes but must have been hours as he told me everything. Everything, including what had happened to him and the colonel.

The sky was already fading to muted tones of indigo when he finished, a hand draped limply over his forehead. "…Call me a halfwit and an ass Winry, because that's what I am. I thought I was doing him a favour when I went to Sersa, but all I accomplished was making everything _worse_. What kind of ' _Hero of the People_ ' am I?"

He smiled, but there was only bitterness in that smile. "I guess without alchemy, I really _am_ useless."

I jolted to my feet at his words. "You don't need alchemy to be a good person."

Edward lowered his head and didn't answer.

Carefully putting my bouquet down on the bench, I bent down into a crouch and laid a hand on Ed's automail knee. "Hey, listen."

Edward didn't twitch, but somehow, I knew he was there and listening.

"I've…never really known what to think about Colonel Mustang. For a while, I kind of hated him – for taking you and Al away from home and putting you on such a dangerous path." I cocked my head and smiled dreamily at those memories. "But then you would come back and gripe endlessly about him – and that dislike turned into amusement, because honestly, you've never _complained_ so much about any other person."

Ed didn't respond, but I thought I saw him smile, just a little.

"I only _really_ talked to him once, after the Promised Day when I came to Central to help bring Al home. I ran into him and Riza in the hospital, and Riza called out to me to ask me how I was doing." I chuckled a bit to myself. "Honestly, it was _so_ awkward – until he told me to call him 'Roy' instead of 'Colonel Mustang'. And then he said…"

I paused, trying to recall his exact words. "He said, ' _Ms. Rockbell, make sure Fullmetal and Alphonse live a good life from now on, okay?_ '"

Edward raised his head, wide eyes meeting mine. "No way. Colonel Bastard?"

"Don't sound so surprised." I laughed at his flabbergasted expression. "The point is, all this time I'd known that the colonel was someone important to you. But I'd never realized that _you_ were someone important to _him_ until then."

"No." Edward murmured softly, shaking his head. "I'm not…" he trailed away.

My voice softened. "Ed, from what you've told me, it sounds like he risked his life to save your ass. Do you think he would've done that if he'd known all you'd do was mope around after?"

Edward stared at me, before snorting once in barely repressed amusement.

I smiled. "See?"

Ed shook his head and laughed softly. "Thanks. I needed that."

My smile widened. "In return for making you feel better, I want you to promise me something." I rapped his automail knee sharply with my wrench, and Edward winced. "Next time you're planning on wreaking your automail, at _least_ give me plenty of warning in advance so I can bring some spare parts along."

I frowned and muttered off a list of parts I needed to replace, repair, and do some long overdue maintenance on, shifting to get a better look at the extent of the damage.

Edward leaned down, wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

"I promise, Winry."

* * *

 _ **~ R ~**_

 _I don't know where I am when I wake up._

 _It's a fierce struggle just to open my eyes, and when I do, first darkness greets me, then searing light._

 _I blink, and I suddenly find myself in a small bed, the patched-up sheets pulled up to my chin. They smell faintly of jasmine-scented detergent, a fragrance which rings some hidden chord deep inside my soul._

 _The room is made completely of wood. A table and a chair have been placed underneath the window – the curtains are drawn back, and blinding sunlight filters through the dusty panes._

 _I don't want to get out of bed, so I turn over and pull the covers over my head. I shut my eyes, but an unexpected voice causes me to snap them open._

" _Jeez. How long are you planning on hogging my bed?"_

 _I turn back around to assess this stranger in the room – my room? – not particularly motivated to rouse myself completely._

 _A boy with raven hair is perched atop the table strewn with alchemy texts. He is dressed comfortably in cotton clothes, the first few buttons of his shirt left loose in some rebellious response to the sweltering heat of summer._

 _I rub my eyes, tempted to burrow back into the relative safety of my bed, but something tells me that I need to talk to this suspiciously familiar boy. "Who are you?"_

 _My voice sounds strangely disembodied when I speak. The light from the window is almost intolerably bright – I find this fact strange, as if I'm used to living in darkness._

" _Have you forgotten already?" The boy tilts his head, and I find myself staring into a pair of cool obsidian depths._

" _Ro–y?"_

 _The boy stretches out my name_ _in between his teeth, tone charmingly playful. "But I guess that's unavoidable. After all, you…" He points at my uniform, pursing his lips in thought before directing the finger at himself. "No,_ I… _have changed too much."_

 _I realize who this boy is._

 _I throw off the covers, rising and dropping my feet to the wooden floorboards. I examine my hands – both clothed in innocent-looking white gloves embroidered with intricate symbols. "Yes, I have."_

" _Is it still Roy, or do you go by some other name now?" The boy smiles coldly. "Which one do you prefer – Colonel Mustang, or Flame Alchemist?"_

 _I do not answer – cannot find the words to answer – so Past-Roy simply shrugs and swings himself off his perch. "Colonel Mustang it is, then."_

 _I remain silent, gazing at the familiar wooden walls. The Hawkeye mansion, the location of my five- year-long apprenticeship._

" _Do you think master would be proud of what we've become?" Past-Roy asks, gesturing vaguely at the stars on my shoulders and the gloves on my hands._

 _I smile cynically. "If Master Hawkeye could see me now – this monster he'd taught and trained with his own hands – I'm sure he would be rolling in his grave."_

" _Well, I don't think you're a monster, co–lo–nel." Past-Roy remarks, striding across the floorboards till he is standing over me. "But I_ do _think that you're a liar and a coward."_

 _I blink, too stunned to return the insult._

" _You're a liar because you lied to Edward Elric about Hughes' death, and then you lied to him_ again _on that train, when you said you haven't given up." Past-Roy nonchalantly continues his abuse as he mimes studying his fingernails. "You're a coward because you ran from your war-plagued past, ran from the nightmares and the guilt, and right now you're feeling the repercussions because you never_ stopped _to face them head-on."_

 _He drops his hand, and his eyes are dead serious. "Even now, you're_ still _running."_

 _My head is pounding, and I can barely focus on my words. "You know_ nothing _. You're just an ignorant little boy with your ignorant little dreams."_

 _Past-Roy raises an eyebrow at this and laughs. "Perhaps I am. You know, Colonel Mustang – you're an awful person. I wouldn't want to be you when I grow up."_

 _I glare. "A bit too late for that, don't you think?"_

" _Ah, but I'm not finished yet." My teenage mirror image smiles again, but this time, it feels genuine. "Despite all that, people depend on you. People_ need _you, and you can't just_ leave _."_

 _I exhale, and the sound feels rattled and shaky in my chest. "I'm just…exhausted." I shake my head. "Besides, they don't need me anymore. I'm useless without my sight."_

" _You're useless in the rain as well, but when has that ever stopped you?"_

" _I'm starting to see why people hated me as a kid."_

 _Past-Roy snorts appreciatively. "Do it for me."_

 _I frown. "What?"_

" _If you won't do it for anyone else, then do it for me – the person you once were. The dreams you once had. Even if you regret it all, there's no turning back now." He holds out his hand and snaps his fingers in front of my nose, making me jump involuntarily. "Come on, Roy. You know you're better than this."_

 _His words echo in my ears, true and real, words from a past long forgotten. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting to remember._

 _I vaguely recall the promises I'd made – standing in the sand and glaring up at the Fuhrer who'd turned Amestris into a never-ending warzone._

If one person can only do so much, then I want to protect as many people as possible.

Those below me will in turn protect those below them.

You say I'm an idealist, but unless someone chases after pipe dreams, nothing will ever change.

" _Do you remember now?" Past-Roy grins. "You may have changed in appearance, but deep down, you're the same old dreamer you –_ we _– always were."_

 _I scoff, but the sound is more pure amusement and less ridicule. "You're young and naïve."_

" _And_ you _are old and foolish."_

" _Thirty is_ not _old."_

" _It is when you're still single." I glower as my younger-self rolls his eyes. "Really, I'm embarrassed at myself."_

 _I snort derisively, and the snort turns into full-on laughter. "You know what? I guess you're right." I tilt my head, envisioning that shining prize at the end of this bloody road – a place at the very top of this country, the power to create the future I'd always dreamed of._

" _Fuhrer, eh?" I smirk to myself. "It must feel good to be up there."_

" _You know what they say – dream big or go home." Past-Roy mirrors my smirk and steps forward._

 _He slaps his palms together in a loud clap. The sound cuts piercingly through the silence and he smiles._

"Wake up. _"_

* * *

Edward Elric felt exhausted.

Leaning his forehead against the window, he let the cool bliss of frigid glass seep into his skin and dull his pounding headache. On the other side of the small hospital room, he could hear the dry rustle of pages being turned as Al read an alchemy text.

Outside the window, nighttime in East City was slowly coming to life, as the streetlights came on and the bars were open for business. Edward registered the dull thud of a heavy book being closed, and the screech of plastic on tiles as Alphonse stood. "I'm going to get us dinner. Do you want something, brother?"

"Maybe a sandwich." Ed shifted, pressing his back to the window instead. "Could you call Eastern Headquarters and ask about the lieutenant? She left to arrange accommodations for Winry hours ago and she isn't back yet."

Al nodded wordlessly. Edward turned back to the window as the door slid shut and he was left in thick silence.

The ventilator continued to buzz and gasp, reminding Edward of the final breaths of some dying creature.

It started as a small cough, so soft that he thought he must have imagined it.

There was a faint rustle of fabric, and Ed swivelled, gaze wary. "Al?"

Silence and a predominantly empty room greeted his eyes.

Shaking his head to himself, Edward pulled a chair up to the bed. Resting an elbow on the antiseptic-smelling covers, he propped his chin on his good hand and muttered: "You sure are taking your own sweet time, Colonel Matchstick."

Mustang _twitched._

Edward jerked up, but the colonel had gone still again. Was he so delusional that he was seeing things that weren't really there?

Then the dark-haired man gasped once, rolling over as his hands tore at the oxygen mask on his face.

The IV plugged into his right hand was ripped out by sheer force, and crimson blood spilled onto the snow white sheets.

Edward realized he wasn't dreaming.

"Colonel?" Before he even registered what he was doing, he had shot to his feet, the chair clattering back against the floor. Edward clutched the older man's shoulders, recognizing the shuddering throes of a panic-induced nightmare. "Hey, it's okay. Can you hear me? It's _okay!_ "

Mustang jolted upright as if in response to Edward's voice, eyes snapping open – wide and sightless. His hand whipped out, instinctively clamping down on Ed's unbroken arm.

"It's me." Ed winced as those surprisingly strong fingers gripped hard enough to bruise. "It's me, Fullmetal."

Mustang blinked once, and Edward watched as the life seemed to bleed back into his pale face. He was breathing heavily, the oxygen mask lying limply on his lap – the elastic strap having snapped when he'd wrenched it off. "Fullmetal?" he repeated uncertainly.

"Yes, it's me." The breath Edward had been holding escaped in a great whoosh of air. He picked up the mask, pressing it to Mustang's face. "Just breathe."

For once, Mustang seemed too disorientated to protest. He inhaled deeply, letting the oxygen fill his lungs. Gradually, he relaxed, his fingers slackening around Edward's wrist but not letting go completely. "I'm…sorry. For a moment there…I didn't know where I was." his rough voice was muffled by the mask, but Ed understood each word with perfect clarity.

"We're in the hospital – in East City. You're safe now." Edward felt his body slump forward with relief. "We're safe now."

Mustang leaned his head back against the metal frame of the bed and gently removed the mask. He seemed to catch himself, snatching his hand away from Ed's wrist.

He coughed once, his mind awake and clear enough to feel the awkwardness of the situation. "So…how long was I out?"

Edward hadn't meant to – but the question made him burst into helpless peals of laughter.

"You have _no_ idea."

* * *

It was nearly midnight when the final train rolled into South City Station.

South City was hardly a bustling place of excitement at the best of times, and this late into the night, the platform was almost completely deserted save for a lone sergeant standing guard at the exit. The overarching roof made this place seem like a hollow shell of metal – a gust of wind tumbled into the station, and the officer shivered from the chilly night air.

Ever since the new Fuhrer took office, tighter security measures had been imposed at most major train stations and border towns, addressing the ever-going concerns of smuggling and human trafficking. The sergeant was rather doubtful that performing general checks on passports was particularly helpful, but as long as it appeared that the military was doing _something_ , the higher-ups were kept content and happy.

Only a few passengers got off the late train, and the young sergeant stepped forward to ask for their identification in a cautiously uninterested voice. A short line formed in front of him, most of the travellers grumbling from the cold.

The sergeant dealt but a few cursory glances at the documentation being displayed to him, not even pausing to read the names properly before waving each person forward.

But the final passenger at the end of the line caused him to do a double take.

"Identification?"

The sergeant tried not to stare at his red eyes and dark skin as the young man rummaged around in his pockets and produced his documentation. Most of his hair had been hidden by a well-placed hat, but the officer was willing to bet that the strands underneath were almost certainly white.

He cleared his throat and read the name printed neatly on the slip of paper. "Evan Blake?"

The passenger smiled, and the sergeant found he didn't really like his smile. "That's correct."

The military officer squinted at his passport, but it seemed valid enough. After all, the once Ishvalan 'insurgents' had just been reinstated as official citizens of Amestris, so did that mean they were allowed to travel around freely as well?

"So, are you in South City for business or pleasure?" The sergeant asked, trying to sound friendly as he returned the man's documentation.

The smile widened sharply.

" _Business._ Always business."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I feel like I have to explain that Ling Yao didn't just decide to suddenly appear out of nowhere - he's mentioned in chapter 2. YES, I've been foreshadowing it for THAT long.**


	18. Chapter 17 - After

**Author's Note:**

 **Wow, it's certainly been awhile. Expect chapter updates to be pretty sluggish (since school reopened I've been totally _swamped_ ), at least until the term break swings around. **

**Strangely, I've managed to rewatch FMAB (in dub for the first time) in the long weeks it took me to finish this chapter. Nothing screams satisfying family weekend more than watching Edward punch Father in the face with your entire family (yay, looks like my obsession is paying off), _and_ watching Mustang burn Envy to a crisp, also with your entire family - as emotionally messed up as that scene is, it's still one of my favourites.**

 **We finished the final episode today, and being reminded of why I even started this fic in the first place, I decided to just suck it up and post something ;P FMA will never stop giving me feels - I swear I cried so many times today.**

 **Cheers and if you'll be so kind as to leave me a follow/fav/review, that'll be amazing!**

dvltgr : Haha, thank you!

mixmax300 : Sorry for making you wait (lol). I promise there'll be some Royai coming up in the final few chapters. ;) Almost there!

Guest : That probably means I'll have to rewrite that chapter at some point ;P Everything went a little out of control, to be honest. Thanks for the review!

Emmahoshi : Thanks for the review! :D Haha, that's sorta why Ling is one of my favourite characters...ah, I seem to have quite a lot of 'favourite characters' in FMA.

* * *

 _Chapter 17 – After_

 _ **Youswell Coal Mines, Amestris**_

 _ **A week prior, 1915**_

"Mommy?"

 _He is trapped in the body of a young child – no, he_ is _that young child, reaching out soft hands to grasp his mother's grease-stained apron._

 _"Yes, dear?" She laughs merrily, a symphony of thrilling silver bells. He squints, but the sun is in his eyes – he can't see her face._

 _"Mommy, mommy, I want a piggyback."_

 _She laughs again, such a brilliant, resonant sound, and his heart soars. "Okay, my dear."_

 _Her deep copper arms envelop his waist, tender flesh both firm and warm. He squeals as she swings his little body up into the air and allows him to climb onto her back._

 _Giggling madly, he clutches her clothes in rounded, chubby fists and screams: "Mommy, go around the yard! Mommy!"_

 _She willingly adheres, and they both swing around the barren backyard, his mother pirouetting as she steps over the occasional patch of half-withered grass. As they twirl together, the little boy is vaguely aware of someone standing just beyond their fence._

 _He sees a flash of navy blue and metal before his mother's light-hearted dance ceases abruptly. She stares at the soldier, at his blank face and his uniform, at the silvery rifle aimed at them both._

 _The boy watches, feeling the slow horror mount inside him like an uncoiling snake. The soldier raises his gun and –_

– _He's suddenly much older, curled up on the wooden floorboards of his bedroom._

"Mommy?"

 _The walls are on fire, the greedy flames licking up the brightly-coloured wallpaper. The glass frames of hanging family photographs crack from the heat in a series of horrible wet snaps._

 _They fall to the ground and shatter._

 _The flames are rearing beasts stalking their petrified prey, rapidly making their fiery way towards him. His lungs are clogged up with smoke, and he can't breathe._

 _There is a loud crash and a drawn out scream from outside his room, instantly cut off._

" _Mother!"_

 _The scorched walls collapse and morph into more walls – these ones are made of cold, unyielding cement. His back is pressed against one of them, and his younger sister wails in his arms._

" _Please…please don't hurt us…"_

 _There is someone standing far above them, like a divine deity delivering holy judgement. The man has his back to the dim light, so his face is shrouded entirely in shadow._

" _Please…please…"_

 _The dark silhouette descends the first step and holds out his arm as if his bare hand were a deadly weapon._

 _The last thing the boy catches sight of is the searing whiteness of his glove._

Evan Blake snapped awake on the rough cushions, his heart pounding wildly.

Swiping a hand over his tired eyelids, his palm came away wet with salty perspiration. He stared at the lingering drops of incriminating moisture before scoffing and sitting up with a grunt.

He rubbed his forehead and frowned – that final part of the dream…He couldn't remember ever seeing it before. His head ached, as if urging him to remember some long-forgotten memory.

Dropping his eyes down to the scratched parquet, he skimmed quickly over the scattered papers covering the living room floor – maps of Central and South City, vague hand-copied blueprints of the currently under construction Central Command, various newspaper cuttings, alchemy textbooks opened to pre-bookmarked pages.

He climbed off the couch and haphazardly collected all his reading material into a chaotic pile, stuffing as many of them as he could into a small suitcase already lined with several changes of clothes.

He snapped the suitcase shut and stretched. It was time to get moving.

"Evan? Where are you going?"

Evan glanced up at the sound of his father's low voice.

He glared at the darkened figure lingering on the staircase landing and replied obstinately: "Nowhere."

Dr. Leonardo Blake paused halfway down the stairs, and his answer was as blank as his shadowed expression. "It's 4a.m. in the morning."

"I _said_ 'nowhere'."

"I know you've been studying alchemy, son."

Evan froze, before forcing the taut muscles in his shoulders to relax. "Took you that long huh, old man?"

"I didn't stop you because I assumed you were learning it to protect yourself," said his father stoically. "But now I can tell that is clearly not the case."

Evan shrugged, snatching a threadbare coat off the rickety coffee table. "It doesn't matter now."

"Please answer my question, son."

Evan pretended to ponder his request. "You wouldn't be able to stop me even if you knew, so why bother?"

"Because you're my _son_ , Evan." His father insisted, and Evan caught a sliver of desperation in his tone.

Evan snorted. "Well, you weren't much of a father to _me_."

"Evan –"

"Because _you_ weren't there when the soldiers came storming into our town; _you_ weren't there when I had to make the long trip across the border while being hunted like a dog; _you_ weren't there when I was wandering the slums of Central with Asther." Evan shook his head, amused rather than angry. "Even now, you've let me down once again, _father_. So I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands."

Blake's face contorted briefly in pain. "I…tried, son. All this…I really _tried_. I tried to free Ishval, tried to give you your home back –"

A burst of laughter escaped Evan's lips – he let the laughter come, let himself laugh long and hard although he didn't know what was so funny. "We both knew it was never going to work. The Amestrian government giving a couple of Ishvalan extremists what they want over a mere military officer? _Sure_ , he's a State Alchemist and a colonel – but the military has plenty of pawns just like him. Expendable, the lot of them are."

"I –"

Evan waved off his father's spluttered response. "In any case, it's over now. No – _I_ had to end it, because you were too soft and 'noble' to do so."

His father tensed. "What did you do, Evan?"

"Why, I just went through with what we promised them – either we get what we want, or he dies, right?" Evan smiled widely. "Or rather, I thought it'd be infinitely more interesting to be rid of that boy he's so protective of instead. If I'm lucky, they'll never get in my way again; if I'm not, I guess I'll just have to be happy that Roy Mustang's precious subordinate died in his arms."

" _Evan!_ " shouted Blake, and his tone, his voice, was so _filled_ with horror and revulsion that Evan couldn't help but feel a tinge of regret at his actions. However, the remorse didn't linger, and the satisfaction of dealing what he considered a fatal blow to his most hated enemy came flooding back.

His father stepped away, as if he couldn't bear to look at his only son any longer. The light of horror in his eyes dimmed, morphing into an emotion strangely foreign to Evan Blake –

Disappointment.

"Oh, Great Lord Ishvala. What kind of monster have I turned you into, my son?"

Evan's smile twisted into one of bitterness. He swivelled, casually flipping a hat over his white hair as he picked up his suitcase.

His own voice was soft when he finally answered. "I don't know, father."

Evan strode towards the door of the abandoned cottage his family had sought refuge in while preparing to cross the desert to Xing. Running. They were running away. _Again._

But he was tired of running. And no matter how this ended, he swore he would leave this world with the pride of knowing that he'd brought searing hell upon all those who'd hurt him and his kind.

"I can't stop you, can I?" His father's quiet, infinitely patient voice sounded behind him.

Evan paused. "No, you can't."

"Is this really for the good of Ishval, son?"

Evan grasped the doorknob, his warped reflection flashing back at him in the grimy silver. "No." He answered honestly.

"Why then? Why do you _have_ to keep going like this?"

 _Why?_

He stared at his uncertain reflection. Was it his imagination? Or did his image almost seem to smile back at him, lips parting to mouth a single sentence: _Because I'll be nothing without this hatred and rage. Because once I stop, I'll have nothing left._

Those were not the exact words he told his father, though.

"Because it's too late to turn back." Evan shifted one shoulder up and down in measured nonchalance. He flung open the door just as a new voice emerged from the pre-dawn darkness.

"Brother?"

Evan turned his head, scarlet eyes locking onto his sister's slight form at the top of the stairs. Asther clutched a faded blanket to her chest and yawned. "Brother, where are you going?"

The Ishvalan alchemist felt his face relax into a gentle smile.

"Goodbye, Asther."

Then he stepped outside onto the dusty street, the door swinging shut behind him.

* * *

 _ **East City, Amestris**_

 _ **Present Day, 1915**_

It was a wonder they weren't banned from the hospital yet, considering that Alphonse could hear the clamour from halfway down the corridor.

"Knight F3 to G5!"

"Really, Fullmetal? Are you _sure_ you want to do that?"

"Stop trying to make me doubt myself, you mind-fucker bastard."

A short pause of silence in which the colonel was no doubt trying not to laugh himself to pieces. "Bishop G4 to D1. Looks like a certain smug ass pipsqueak just lost his Queen."

" _DAMN_ YOU!"

Alphonse pulled open the sliding door, only to be greeted by a strangely familiar scene which he'd seen a thousand, perhaps a million times before – the majority of Colonel Mustang's subordinates gathered in the room as if this were just another usual weekday at the office.

Second Lieutenant Havoc was leaning against the opposite wall, turning his head every so often to discreetly puff mouthfuls of smoke out the open window – he snatched the half-finished cigarette from his lips when Hawkeye snapped her eyes up from the newspaper she'd been perusing, giving him a long, hard glare for his ultimate sin of smoking in a hospital room.

Breda had small stack of official military forms resting on his knee, a pen in his hand and a sandwich in the other; while Falman was trying to draw Mustang's attention away from his mental chess tournament and onto the long overdue paperwork which had been piling up in their office for the past two weeks.

" _Fine_ , Falman. Just tell me what I need to sign."

"Are you sure you don't want me to read these to you first?" The warrant officer asked, appalled that there actually existed superior officers who blindly – quite literally and metaphorically – signed ambiguous military reports.

"King E1 to D1," stated Edward adamantly, resting an arm on the foldable table currently stretched over Mustang's bed – at the moment, its wooden surface was nearly completely buried underneath a white avalanche of scattered military documents.

"Who _cares_ if General Halcrow wants another bazooka for New Optain?" Mustang waved a hand dismissively, seeming to be in too good a mood to nitpick (not that he nitpicked a whole lot when it came to filling out paperwork in general). "Pawn F7 to F5."

Falman appeared even more appalled. Alphonse rapped sharply on the door to announce his arrival.

The colonel cocked his head towards the direction of the sound – a habit Al had become accustomed to during their time in Sersa. "Fuery? Please don't tell me the cafeteria ran out of coffee."

Alphonse smiled. "It's me, Colonel Mustang."

He stepped aside, revealing his companion. Winry raised her hand in semblance of an awkward wave. "Good morning, everyone."

Mustang touched his knuckles to his lips, frowning as he tried to attach the feminine voice to a name. "Ah! Miss Rockbell, this is a surprise."

"Please, Colonel Mustang, just Winry is fine." Alphonse slid the door close as Winry heaved her loaded basket onto a side table and swiped a sleeve over her sweaty forehead. "I brought breakfast."

The word 'breakfast' worked more wonders than an activated transmutation circle, and everyone in the room save for Mustang leapt up from their seats to peer into Winry's mysterious basket.

With a prideful flourish, Winry presented her homemade apple pie for all to gape in awe at. "I hope you like it," she smiled brightly, very pleased with herself. "Come on, dig in!"

Al unpacked a small pile of ceramic plates from the basket while Hawkeye meticulously divided the aromatic pie up into eight equal pieces.

Plates were passed around, and delicious _mmm_ s were echoed. "You're an angel, Miss Winry," remarked Havoc appreciatively. "If only I could find a girlfriend as talented as you."

"Rook H1 to E1," commanded Edward forcefully, and though his scrunched up eyebrows indicated he was still very much invested in the game, his molten glare sawed through Havoc like a laser beam.

Havoc looked the other way and pretended not to notice.

"I would advise you to watch your sugar intake, sir," said Hawkeye, pushing aside some of the papers to lay down a loaded plate on his table. Her gaze was rather disapproving when Mustang dived into his meal without a second's thought. "You're not fully recovered yet."

"I'm fine, lieutenant," mumbled the colonel around a mouthful of sweet pastry, followed by an astonished: "This is almost _exactly_ like Gracia's pie!"

"So what are you all doing here?" asked Alphonse, tapping his spoon against his plate as he realized that it was kind of a stupid question – though he _was_ pleasantly surprised that the entire gang had showed up on such short notice.

Breda patted the stack of papers on his lap and stuck a thumb in Mustang's general direction. "Visiting. And making sure the colonel gets a headstart on all this paperwork."

"Knight B8 to A6." Mustang grumbled. "You'd think you could get through two weeks of vacation without being swamped by all these goddamn documents. Military life is merciless."

Edward sniggered as he swallowed a mouthful of pie. "Good thing I retired then. Pawn H3 to H4."

"Sir, I would hardly call our time in Sersa a 'vacation'," deadpanned Hawkeye.

"You're right. If _that's_ the closest thing I've had to a holiday since I was transferred to Central, then I'm obviously in need of a well-deserved break." With Falman's guidance, Mustang grumpily scratched his name onto one of the forms. "Now that would be an excellent addition to the list of changes I need to make when I become Fuhrer: more annual leave for military personnel and maybe an extra public holiday or two. Havoc, make a note."

"Aye, Chief." Havoc saluted and grinned.

Alphonse couldn't help smiling to himself – while he was never a State Alchemist and hence never really officially part of their team, he'd always enjoyed the warm atmosphere created by their light bantering.

"Queen F6 to D4," drawled the colonel, wincing even at the slight action of moving his leg into a more comfortable position – among several other injuries, his fractured ankle required an uncomfortable-looking plaster cast. "Oh, that reminds me. Falman, Major General Armstrong wants you back."

Falman visibly blanched. "The…general, sir?"

"She called me last night to ' _cash in on a debt I owe her_ '." The expression on his face clearly demonstrated his reluctance. "In return for the assistance we received from Major Miles and his soldiers, she wants you transferred back to Briggs. I think her exact words were ' _One of my soldiers came back with a bullet hole in his leg because of you – so you'd better compensate for his absence_.'" He stopped there, but the alluded ' _or else_ ' was clear in his imitation of the Ice Queen's chilly tone.

Falman apparently couldn't decide between looking gratified or horrified. "She asked for _me_ , specifically?"

"Bishop F1 to H3," grinned Edward, patting Falman on the back reassuringly. "You must have made quite the impression on her, especially when you helped freeze Sloth."

"Besides, you met a girl you liked the last time you were up North, didn't you?" added the colonel nonchalantly.

Al wasn't aware that the usually stoic warrant officer was capable of flushing. "Well, I guess I don't have much of a choice in the matter."

"Hey, why does _Falman_ get to go back to his girlfriend while you asked me to dump mine when we were transferred to Central?" protested Havoc.

"Because _your_ love lives are like high velocity car collisions – they almost always crash and burn," answered Mustang primly. "Queen D4 to A1."

Havoc went red. "And whose fault is _that?_ " he snapped.

Alphonse almost felt sorry for the second lieutenant, considering that his last girlfriend had quite _literally_ burned.

"Bishop H3 to D7, check…" Edward paused and his eyes went wide. "CHECKMATE!"

"Wait, what?" Mustang jolted upright from his reclining position, grimacing in pain as he tore at his new stitches. "That's impossible!"

He frowned as he tried to track their progress, only for Breda to add in cheerfully: "I've been following your game, sir. It's a definite checkmate."

"Ha!" Ed's golden eyes were spitting sparks as he did a small victory dance on the tiles. "In your _face_ , Colonel Bastard!"

"That doesn't count," huffed Mustang, shutting his eyes and crossing his arms. "I was distracted."

"Come on, sir." Breda smiled. "Edward won fair and square."

Mustang's grey-hued eyes snapped open, glaring at some spot a few inches above Breda's head. "Whose paycheck are _you_ on?"

Breda seemed tempted to reply ' _the military's_ ', but he'd been with Mustang long enough to know when to simply shrug at the colonel's childish moods and back off.

"Now, I seem to recall a little deal we made some time back." Edward grinned wickedly. "Something about you having to follow my every wish if I beat you at chess."

Mustang snorted. "Invalid. I also said that our deal was only applicable to our time in Sersa. We're not in Sersa anymore, are we?"

Edward scowled venomously. "Cheat."

"Now –"

"Crook."

"Fullme –"

"Colonel-Bastard-Useless-In-The-Rain-Who's-Too-Scared-Keep-His-End-Of-The-Bargain."

" _Alright!_ " Mustang groaned unwillingly. " _One_ wish. I'll do whatever you want one time, and that's _it._ "

Edward's evil grin returned. "Give me all your money."

"Do you _want_ me to become a homeless person?"

"Actually, that image is pretty flattering – and tempting."

"Fullmetal!"

"You'd better ask for something else, Edward." Hawkeye chuckled softly, her amber eyes glittering. "Something that preferably doesn't involve bankrupting the colonel."

"You're such a cheapskate, Mustang." Ed's smile widened, then faded a notch. Only Alphonse and Winry noticed the subtle change in his expression – the flicker of fire in his eyes. "Fine then. I want you to –"

The door slammed open, and Fuery all but tumbled into the room, dramatically out of breath.

Al glanced up, putting down his empty plate. "Fuery?"

Fuery shook his head, seeming dazed or aghast or both. "Around the corner," he huffed, seeming unable to communicate by anything other than vague flailing hand motions. "You would not believe…"

"Sergeant Fuery," commanded Mustang, frowning in bewilderment. "Would you calm down for two seconds and tell us exactly –"

"Flame Alchemist."

The deep, almost impossibly impassive voice – a mountain of hard limestone, an empty desert of sand – still had the power of freezing them all in place instantaneously.

Edward slowly turned around, golden eyes wary, the flash of an uncertain smile on his lips. "Hullo, Scar."

Scar silently surveyed the occupants of the room, his broad shoulders nearly filling the entire width of the doorway. "Someone is here to see you, State Alchemist."

For once, he seemed able to utter the word without spitting it out in complete disgust and abhorrence, which Alphonse took to be a good sign. Ed reflexively straightened, though since he was no longer part of the military, there really was only one State Alchemist currently in the room.

Said alchemist blinked, seeming to be utterly speechless for once, unable to find the right words to address this once sworn enemy, now person he owed his life to.

Then Scar stepped aside, revealing the true surprise.

Alphonse shot to his feet as a familiar hunched silhouette emerged from the outer corridor, faithfully waited on by two of his young attendants. White robes embroidered with scarlet thread, the traditional garments of an Ishvalan man of god, hung from his gnarled frame. A pair of lively red eyes glimmered in a deep set copper face, the light in them not at all dimmed by the man's apparent old age.

The Ishvalan Grand Cleric, glorious successor of the infamous prophet Logue Lowe, simply smiled wordlessly, letting his presence speak for itself.

Havoc's cigarette fell limply from his fingers, Breda gaped, Falman stared, Edward opened his mouth and shut it again like a goldfish. Alphonse's usually brilliant mind struggled to comprehend what this particular man was doing _here_ , in _this_ hospital room.

Only Mustang was left almost comically out of the loop, glancing around aimlessly but of course seeing nothing. "Wha – Lieutenant, what's going on?"

Before Hawkeye could translate her own surprise into words, the Grand Cleric spoke, his tone humorous: "Colonel, I hope you don't mind this sudden social visit."

It took the colonel a full second to recognize the Cleric's voice, and another full second for this outlandish reality to truly sink in.

Alphonse was amazed, really, by how quickly Mustang dropped his light-hearted air from before. His stunned expression instantly sobered as he turned his head towards the general direction of the door.

Folding his hands neatly in his lap, he smiled coolly, no longer the Colonel Roy Mustang they knew, but rather the Colonel Roy Mustang everyone _else_ knew.

"Grand Cleric, this certainly _is_ a surprise."

* * *

" _What do you think, Major Miles?"_

 _The major visibly started, his even, disciplined soldier's gait wavering slightly. "Sir?"_

 _The Grand Cleric coughed into a hand, quickening his strides to match those of his young companion. "Fuhrer Grumman's insistence that a military officer of rank brigadier general or higher be placed as the overarching voice of authority on the program. What are your thoughts on this?"_

 _Miles tightened his lips uncertainly. "The official ceremony is tomorrow – certainly you aren't thinking of backing out because of that request –"_

 _The Cleric raised his hand, silencing the major. "No, no. No such thing has crossed my mind. After all, the lack of trust between Ishvalans and Amestrians goes both ways. In fact, I am surprised that Fuhrer Grumman was gracious enough to offer me a choice in the matter – the supervising officer of the program will be elected by myself, the voice of all Ishvalans." The Cleric smiled slightly. "It is a pity that you are no general, Major Miles. You would have been my first choice."_

 _Miles inclined his head respectfully. "I am not of full Ishvalan blood, Cleric. I have neither the right to hold such an esteemed position, nor do I have the right to have a say in the matter."_

 _"Ah, but by that same line of reasoning, the rest of those arrogant, ignorant high-ranking officers have even less 'right' than you."_

 _Miles raised his head, shocked by the Cleric's sudden change in tone and this blatant display of disrespect towards the military._

 _The Grand Cleric simply laughed nonchalantly. "I may be old, major, but my sight is clear and unblemished. When the Fuhrer introduced me to his high command – all of them the most powerful people in Amestris, all of them generals – I could tell that the majority of them had no genuine interest in the program. Indeed, none of them understood much of the Ishval Civil War at all. Not even that young general – Rourke, was it? Even though he treats me with some amount of courtesy, the serpent of greed lurks in his eyes."_

 _At Miles's surprised expression, the Cleric laughed again. "What? Did you think an old codger like me who survived the Civil War could be deceived by a few honeyed words, artificial sympathy, and a vague promise of financial aid?"_

 _"I – Ah…I mean no disrespect, sir."_

 _The Cleric waved his hand in amusement. "But no, let me get straight to the point. You are the only person I well and truly trust in the Amestrian military, Major Miles, and I want your sincere and honest opinion regarding this conundrum. Where, major, would you advise me to find a military officer of sufficiently high rank, yet who understands Ishval, and who will not seek to use this power to exploit us for his own gain?" He sighed melancholically. "That is simply too much to ask for, perhaps."_

 _"It is true that most of the current generals in Central were never directly involved in the war…" mused Miles. "You said you seek someone who understands Ishval, Grand Cleric? Then I say you seek someone who has seen the atrocities committed with his own eyes."_

 _"Ah, a bit of young wisdom. What say you, Major Miles? Shall we have someone with hands clean of Ishvalan blood but who has no desire to cooperate closely with us brown-skinned 'outsiders'; or shall we have someone so utterly stained and tarnished, with hands which can never be wiped spotless of our kinsmen's blood, and yet who wishes sincerely to seek forgiveness?" The Cleric cocked his head. "A conundrum indeed."_

 _Major Miles smiled enigmatically. "Then I say you already have a candidate in mind, sir."_

 _"Perhaps I do." The Grand Cleric slowed as they strode through the grand doors of Central Command and down its magnificent marble staircase. "Maybe it is more accurate to say perhaps I_ did _. This particular candidate, however, was mysteriously absent from the rest of our meetings for reasons which were not completely clear to me. I have trouble comprehending what this entails, exactly."_

 _A car was waiting on the curb to take the Cleric to his temporary lodgings in Central. Major Miles hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. "Sir, perhaps there is something you should know_ _."_

 _The Grand Cleric watched in vague amusement as the major yanked open the door of the car with intimidating authority, ordering the sergeant in the driver's seat to return home for the day. Miles then proceeded to usher his honourable guest into the back seat. "I think it best for me to drive you to the hotel personally, sir. After all, it is my responsibility as your escort."_

 _"That is very kind of you, major."_

 _Miles nodded, a glimmer of a twinkle in his eyes. "We shall speak more on the way, Grand Cleric. I have quite the story which I'm sure would intrigue you."_

* * *

Dignity. Dignity and poise.

Two qualities of an excellent leader. Two words which immediately described this young man sitting across from him at the narrow cafeteria table.

The Grand Cleric, prophet of divine Ishvala, watched in complete silence and calmness as Colonel Roy Mustang fiddled with his IV drip, carefully unwinding the thin tube which had gotten tangled up on their way down. His flaxen-haired lieutenant stood as still as a statue behind his wheelchair, and the Cleric could feel her keen gaze observing him from her station – lovely eyes the colour of sweet, dark honey.

The boy with braided sun-gold hair strode meekly up to their occupied table, setting down a cup of fragrant tea in front of the Cleric and a mug of dark coffee in front of the colonel with more grace than the Cleric had expected from the notoriously brash Fullmetal Alchemist.

He stepped back, the expression on his face astonishingly docile. "I, um – ahem," his golden eyes flicked reluctantly up to Lieutenant Hawkeye, who simply stared meaningfully back at him.

He dropped his eyes and straightened his shoulders with steely determination. "I would like to apologize for barging into your tent a few weeks ago. That was…" Edward Elric cleared his throat, the flush in his cheeks a clear indication that he wasn't accustomed to apologizing for his brazen ways. "Rather rude of me."

The Grand Cleric smiled, the copper skin around his eyes crinkling merrily like a crumpled old parchment. "That's very kind of you to say. I'll admit, I _was_ rather shocked by your sudden appearance – but if I'd known then that you were the famed Fullmetal Alchemist, I wouldn't have been as harsh to you as I was."

Edward nodded stiffly, relieved that his reluctant apology had gone remarkably well. Colonel Mustang discreetly held a hand to his mouth, and the Cleric was amused to see that he was concealing a small smile of his own.

Evidently noticing the scandalous grin, Ed scowled. "Hey, Mustang. I bought the drinks, so you'd better pay me back later."

"Cheapskate." Mustang smirked and waved a hand. " _Thank you_ , Fullmetal."

The sarcasm was evident, and Edward snorted in disdain before stomping off to join his brother. The younger alchemist was currently outside in the waiting lounge, conferring excitably with the Nameless One – the tall warrior priest whom the Amestrians seemed to know as Scar.

Reaching out and groping awkwardly for his drink, Mustang then inclined his head slightly. "Lieutenant, thank you for your assistance."

It was an obvious signal to Lieutenant Hawkeye – an order to leave them to confer in private. The Cleric had expected her to follow the colonel's command immediately, but instead, she wavered (albeit only fleetingly) before snapping a hand to her forehead in a crisp salute and stepping away.

The Grand Cleric raised an eyebrow at this before signalling his own attendants to withdraw. The two Ishvalan guards, both of them young priests, were noticeably more hesitant in leaving his side – but even the demonic Flame Alchemist seemed nothing more than an ordinary man, indisposed as he was in his wheelchair.

But no matter how feeble or frail-looking he seemed, a proud, noble air hung around his being like invisible wings – rod-straight back, carefully schooled features, pale fingers curled neatly around the warm ceramic of his cup. For a moment there, the Cleric could almost disregard the fact that this man was not only completely blind, but also significantly injured.

The silence was an elastic cord, stretching impossibly taut between them. Colonel Mustang did not raise his mug to his lips until he registered the whispery sips of the Cleric sampling his tea.

The older Ishvalan wiped down his tea-stained fingers and said: "You really shouldn't have insisted on coming down here, Colonel Mustang. I feel ashamed to let a barely recovered patient leave his bed."

"Oh no, what sort of person would I be if I did not at _least_ offer you a decent cup of tea?" Mustang smiled, and if the painkillers were wearing off and his new wounds were causing him grief, he showed absolutely no indication of it. "After all, East City is famous for its lemon and cinnamon brew."

"We are both men who value brevity, so I'll get straight to the point, Colonel Mustang." The Cleric cleared his throat softly. "I plan to recommend you as Head Supervising Officer of the Ishvalan Restoration Program. Will you accept?"

If it were not so blatantly out of character, the Cleric suspected that Mustang would have spewed out his mouthful of coffee. Instead, he erupted into a series of hacking coughs as the hot liquid went down the wrong channel.

"I'm…sorry?"

"Will you accept?" repeated the Ishvalan patiently.

"N – I mean –" Realizing that he wasn't in complete control of his behaviour, Mustang inhaled once to calm himself. "This is very…surprising, Grand Cleric. I thought I would be the last candidate you'd have in mind."

"I am not one to let personal bias influence decisions which will affect my people," stated the Cleric with steadfast calm. "As a leader yourself, I am sure you can relate."

"With all due respect, I am fairly certain this goes beyond the scope of 'personal bias'," remarked the colonel dryly. "I won't sugarcoat the truth, honourable Cleric. I did some truly horrifying things in Ishval, many things which could be considered war crimes in their own right. Your people despise and fear me, and for good reason. Am I really the sort of person you want working in close quarters with other Ishvalans?"

His young, determined features were completely serious, his tone grave even as he admitted to his own failings. The Grand Cleric shook his head, amused despite himself at this brutal display of honestly. "I'd admit that I had those exact same misgivings about you, Flame Alchemist, especially when we first met. But let me ask you a question in return, Colonel Mustang: do you think that some other Amestrian officer would be seen by my kinsmen as any different?"

Mustang blinked, taken back by the question.

"As far as Ishval is concerned, the _whole_ military is guilty. State Alchemists may have been primarily responsible for the senseless massacre of my people, but it does not change the fact that most of them were simply used in the same manner as heavy artillery – the term 'human weapon' could not have been more apt." The Grand Cleric of Ishval asserted sombrely. "Now let me ask you another question, colonel: why would _you_ , a State Alchemist, push so hard for a program which clearly has no benefit to you or the Amestrian military?"

To this question at least, he answered immediately: "Because I am a selfish man, Cleric – not only I, but many others who have fought in the civil war. It is our responsibility to right the wrongs which we were ordered to commit."

"And there I have my answer."

"Even so –" Mustang gritted his teeth, but evidently decided to press on. "Even so, I'm not even – I can't even _see_. I wouldn't be able to –"

"You wouldn't be able to what, colonel?" interjected the Ishvalan curtly. "Last I checked, you're still able to make rational decisions, no? You're still able to lead, and confer, and negotiate."

Mustang opened his mouth to protest, paused, and closed it again, his expression sheepish and dazed.

"If you insist on making such excuses, then I guess I'll have to find someone else to take the position." The Grand Cleric sighed dramatically, tapping a fingernail against his teacup.

Mustang was silent for a long moment, struggling to organize his disarrayed thoughts. Finally, he breathed in sharply, as if bracing himself for the last lap of a long race, and raised his head.

"Alright. I accept."

The Cleric smiled – the kind of knowing grin when an unavoidable outcome had finally come to pass, and no one but you had predicted it. "As I knew you would, Colonel Mustang."

The crimson-eyed man gracefully drained the rest of his tea and rose from his seat, robes rustling. "It will be a long and hard path for both sides to walk, colonel. You'll have to persuade those who stubbornly insist to cling onto old concepts such as vengeance and hatred."

"I know," said Mustang coolly.

"Then I expect we shall soon see each other much more often after you're officially promoted to brigadier general." The Cleric stretched out a sunburnt hand. "Here's to a comprehensive cooperation between Ishval and Amestris."

"Ah," sensing the anticipation of the moment, the colonel hesitantly raised his own hand. "Yes, here's to that."

The Grand Cleric reached across the table, grasping the younger man's hand warmly in his own. Mustang started, but he did not withdraw.

"I sincerely hope I won't regret this." The Ishvalan said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

Mustang's face was severe as he answered. And yet something else lurked just beneath the surface – a shimmer, a flash, a flicker of something most people would call _hope_.

"You and me both, Cleric."

* * *

When he returned from a string of professional farewells and promises of future discussions, it was to Edward's dark scowl instead of his lieutenant's stern but reassuring demeanour.

"What happened to the lieutenant?" asked Roy. Her absence was like a gaping hole in the tangible fabric of his reality – he didn't need his eyes to know that she wasn't here.

"She had to go back to East HQ. Something about needing to fill out extra forms to extend her leave of absence," explained Ed gruffly. "We're supposed to escort you back to your room in the meantime."

"Well, you don't have to sound so cross about it, Fullmetal. I can make my way back by myself, thank you very much."

Edward snorted his disbelief, to which Roy took personal offence at – of _course_ he was more than capable of taking care of himself. Al's giggle resonated behind him, where the younger Elric had been pushing his wheelchair along. "Brother's just unhappy that Winry is gone."

"I am _not_. What do I care about that automail gearhead?" protested Edward unconvincingly.

"Where _is_ Miss Rockbell anyway?" asked Roy, curiosity now piqued.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye was going to drop her off at the station. She's heading back to Resembool," answered Alphonse.

"So soon?" teased Roy, tone delightfully conspiratorial. "Such a shame."

"Shut up, Colonel Bastard."

"I'm just saying, shouldn't you at _least_ be seeing her off? That's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"Maybe," admitted Edward reluctantly. "After we make sure you're safely back with the others."

Roy raised his eyebrows incredulously. "Who are you and what have you done with Fullmetal?"

Ed scoffed, obviously affronted. "Don't take this the wrong way. Hawkeye would kill me if anything happened to you."

"I have a better idea. Why don't you brothers head along to the station straightaway?" Roy smiled persuasively. "After all, I'm sure that someone else wouldn't mind escorting me to my room in your stead – isn't that right, _Scar_?"

The monotonous creaking of stiff wheels faltered as Alphonse's not-so-subtle wince showed in his stride. As if Roy _wouldn't_ notice the heavy footsteps walking alongside them, their large owner mysteriously keeping his silence.

The squeaking ceased altogether as they stopped, allegedly in front of the elevator. Scar refrained from answering until the lift pinged its arrival. "Of course. I'm in no hurry to return to Ishval."

Roy turned his cool smile towards Edward's relative position. "I'd tell you and your brother to go back with Miss Rockbell, but I suspect that's another argument for another day."

"Wha – Are you _sure_?" asked Ed, struggling to conceal his apprehension towards the tall Ishvalan. While Edward was definitely warming up to Scar (to a certain extent), _trust_ was still too strong a word to describe their strenuous relationship.

Roy shrugged. While 'trust'was still too strong a word for him as well, he needed to start _somewhere_. "There's something I need to discuss with Scar. Now you two run along, and that's an order."

There was a hesitant shuffle of feet as Alphonse handed over the handles of the wheelchair to Scar. A rustle of movement later and Roy was alone with him in the elevator, the doors sliding shut and leaving them in complete stillness.

Scar pressed a button. The floor thrummed, the gears whirred, and the elevator began its gradual ascent.

Roy licked his lips uncertainly.

"Thank you."

Scar remained silent. For a moment Roy caught himself wondering if he had been left all alone in the darkness of the elevator.

"I…I owe you my life. That's the sort of thing I will never forget."

"I've said this once and I'll say it again." Scar's impassive voice boomed from somewhere overhead. "Your gratitude is unnecessary."

"You could have easily left me for dead," intoned Roy softly, his words nearly drowned out by the buzz of moving machinery. "That means something to _me_ , at least."

Scar didn't answer. The elevator pinged again, and the metal doors glided open with a telltale _swoosh!_

The hard leather of the wheelchair pressed gently into the small of his back as Scar pushed him out into the corridor. "If you really want to thank me, then make good on your promise. You're now in a position to save my homeland."

"You overheard my conversation with the Grand Cleric?"

"The purpose of his trip here was no secret. This decision was not one that was made without the counsel of several others."

Roy tilted his head. "And you're okay with that?"

Scar seemed to seriously consider his question. "I told him better you than someone else. At least I know where to find you if you ever violate your word."

Roy actually chuckled. "Oh _believe_ me, if I ever tried anything to harm Ishval, the lieutenant would certainly beat you to it."

They slowed to a gentle stop. Roy could feel Scar reaching over him to push open the door.

"Does this mean you forgive me?"

The question had leapt off his tongue before Roy could stop himself. He lowered his head, suddenly dreading the answer.

The seconds marched past, enormous and silent. Scar didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't reply, until –

" _No._ "

Roy flinched involuntarily.

"I will _never_ forgive you for the slaughter of my kinsmen, and neither would the people whose lives you took or their families." Scar eased back, but the door remained unopened.

"I…" Roy laughed, the humourless sound devastating in its softness. "I guess that's only fair."

"But if you succeed in restoring Ishval, then perhaps you will be able to forgive yourself."

Roy raised his head in surprise.

"Forgive…" Scar's words sunk in, and he felt his mouth curve into a slight smile. "That's awfully…philosophical of you."

Scar grunted.

"Thank you." Roy laughed, genuinely this time. "You know, I never thought that I would be thanking you for _anything_ , much less twice in one day."

Scar's reply was interrupted by a voice from further down the corridor.

"Oh, Colonel Mustang, and –" Roy could hear the falter in Winry Rockbell's sunshiny tone. "…Scar."

Scar stepped back slowly. The tension in the air was thick and syrupy, seeming to straddle them all in a suffocating cloak.

The Ishvalan cleared his throat. "Till we meet again, Flame Alchemist."

And with that short farewell, he swivelled around and strode down the corridor – Roy noted that he'd opted to head towards the stairs instead of the elevator, most likely to avoid getting too close to Winry Rockbell.

Roy recalled some of the details Edward had mentioned to him about Scar and his connection to the death of Winry's parents. What the Ishvalan had told him, about forgiveness – perhaps it was something he told himself everyday as well.

"Miss Rockbell, I thought you'd left for the train station?" Roy asked pleasantly, intending to restore the mood with casual conversation.

Winry took a shaky breath, and Roy could hear the strained cheerfulness in her voice. "Y – yes." She laughed forcefully. "Actually, I left my bag in your room – stupid mistake. Oh, let me get the door for you."

"That'll be very helpful, thank you." Roy nodded his gratitude, before a sudden idea struck him. "Miss Winry, you aren't in a rush to return to Resembool, are you?"

"No, I guess…not really." Winry answered. "I mean, it's not like I have anything important to do back home."

Roy flashed her his most charming smile, making sure to add that extra layer of Roy-Mustang-patented-smoulder – the kind which almost no girl could refuse.

"Would you mind helping me out with a favour, then?"

* * *

After a long and stressful week, nothing felt more amazingly blissful than a full hour in the shower.

It was still not in her nature to be wasteful in any manner, but Riza Hawkeye felt this day called for one of her rare exceptions. As the hot, clean water soaked into her dusty blonde hair, she tilted her face upwards to catch the full blast of the pouring showerhead. Closing her eyes and allowing the heavy droplets to pound against her eyelids and slither down her cheeks, she released a breathy sigh of pure contentment.

Riza caught herself halfway through the sigh and smiled wryly – it was astonishing, really, how the little pleasures in life which most people took for granted could be heavenly manifestations in the eyes of most military personnel. Often, they couldn't quite tell for sure when that next long soak in the bath would be, or that next visit to the delicious curry place down the street, or whether they'll even come back home _at all_.

Riza ran her fingers through the wet strands of her hair and basked in the pleasant sensation of being alive.

Somewhere outside in her small room at the Eastern military barracks, a shrill ring drifted on the air, muffled by the sound of water in her ears.

Sighing a second time, this one from reluctance, Riza turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, drying her hair as she did so.

Wrapping her towel around herself, Riza strode carefully into the kitchen and picked up the phone.

"Hello? Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye speaking." Suddenly exposed to cooler air, the scars covering her back were beginning to itch. She scratched at her neck absentmindedly as she waited for an answer.

"Riza! It's me."

"Winry?" Riza continued to swipe at her dripping hair with her towel, voice pleasantly surprised. "Have you arrived at Resembool already?"

"Oh, about that, I decided to postpone." Winry's cheerful voice buzzed through the receiver. "I just realized that there was…a lot to see in East City. And it would be such a shame if I went home without doing at least a bit of sightseeing."

Riza was fairly certain that East City was a pretty boring place (save for the occasional serial killer or terrorist attack). She couldn't imagine what exactly Winry was hoping to 'sightsee' around here.

"Of course, Winry. There's no rush. Please let me know if you require any help."

"That's actually why I'm calling," said Winry readily. "You see, I'm not very familiar with East City, so I was hoping you could come with me on my shopping trip tomorrow."

Winry's tone was so matter-of-fact that Riza thought she'd misheard the younger girl. "Your shopping trip?"

"Exactly! I couldn't ask Ed and Al because all they'd do is complain every step of the way," grumbled Winry. "I mean, doesn't Edward know that browsing through an automail store with the latest models is _supposed_ to take an hour at the very least?"

Riza raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I'm not sure if automail is my specialty."

"Oh, uh – I'm not only talking about automail of course! I'm thinking of getting some new clothes, as all my old ones are getting rather greasy. And um, I think you could use a new dress as well, Riza." Winry chattered brightly. "And Colonel Mustang said he'd –"

The line went abruptly silent, with Winry most likely cursing herself for unintentionally giving the real game away.

Riza's eyebrow shot up a little higher. "The colonel said what?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all. Just that…he'd cover all my – _our!_ – shopping expenses," laughed Winry awkwardly. "'Cause you know, since Ed isn't a State Alchemist anymore, I can't pester him to buy me a new wrench…"

Riza smiled and shook her head in amusement. "Okay, Winry. I'll come with you."

" _Really?_ " Winry's excitement was strangely contagious, and Riza found herself actually looking forward to picking out some new clothes with the blue-eyed mechanic whom she almost considered a little sister. "I mean – I absolutely owe you one, Riza! Shall we meet in front of the town square tomorrow morning?"

"That sounds great." Riza perched the plastic bulk of the phone against her shoulder. "But I'll have to arrange an escort for the colonel first –"

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that. The colonel mentioned that Ed and Al will be with him all day."

Riza tapped the receiver thoughtfully. "Is that so?"

"Yup. So it's settled then, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'll see you then." Riza replied softly, before replacing the receiver in its cradle.

Leaning her hip against the kitchen counter, Riza's gaze flicked up to rest on a grimy calendar pinned to the wall.

 _I knew I wasn't wrong._

Riza double-checked the date, lips tightening.

For a moment, she toyed with the idea of confronting Roy directly about his little ruse of sorts as soon as she got back to the hospital. But she knew that he had his reasons, even though she may not completely agree with them.

Stretching out a palm to brush her fingertips against the sloppily printed numbers, Riza sighed once again – but this time, there was nothing remotely happy about the sound.

She stood there for a long moment, drenched hair shedding little droplets of moisture on the tiled floor at her feet – considering, reconsidering. Finally, Riza shook her head and decided not to call off her appointment with Winry.

She guessed he could really use some time alone.

They both did.

* * *

"Suspicious."

"Brother –"

" _Very suspicious._ He's up to something, I know it."

"Brother, you're overreacting." Alphonse rolled his eyes and sighed in resignation.

Edward growled as the brothers passed through the revolving glass doors of East City General Hospital. "Come on, Al. Remember what the colonel said yesterday?"

 _"Fullmetal, why don't you buy Miss Rockbell a present tomorrow?"_

 _Edward looked up from his book, eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. "Huh?"_

 _"A present," repeated Mustang, tapping a pen against his half-finished stack of paperwork. His men had returned to Central as the evening faded into nightfall, finally leaving the colonel to enjoy some 'hard-earned' peace and quiet. "I heard you two had quite the argument a few days ago."_

 _Ed flushed. "It wasn't much of an argument. Winry is always beating me up for something."_

 _Mustang smirked. "As much as I would love to see the Fullmetal Alchemist get beaten to a pulp by a girl, I guess I do have to take a bit of responsibility for Winry being angry at you. Which is why I think you should go to town to get her an apology gift tomorrow – it's on me."_

 _Edward's jaw dropped and he gaped. "Who are you and what have you done with the colonel?"_

 _The colonel scoffed, obviously affronted. "Don't take this the wrong way. Is it really so strange that I would like to do something nice for my sub – former subordinate once in a while?"_

 _"Uh,_ yes _. Yes it is."_

 _"Look at it this way. You weren't even supposed to_ be _in Sersa in the first place – and if you hadn't been there you wouldn't have broken your arm and ruined your automail." Mustang shrugged. "Just let me make it up to you, okay?"_

 _Edward slowly put down his book, scooting over to the colonel's bedside with an air of wary caution. "Are you_ sure _that coma didn't knock something loose in your head?"_

 _"Don't make me retract my offer, Fullmetal."_

 _Ed cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I guess after all the crap I've had to put up with, I'd best take advantage of some of this unprecedented kindness. Just don't expect me to buy something cheap."_

 _"As long as it isn't a mansion, I'm pretty sure I can afford to pay for it."_

"What's so strange about that?" insisted Alphonse.

"Well, disregarding the fact that Mustang is the by far stingiest penny-pincher I know, Winry mentioned that she was going out with Lieutenant Hawkeye this morning." Edward waved a finger dramatically in the air to punctuate his words. "While the colonel clearly told us that Hawkeye _would be with him all day._ "

"You're just paranoid," said Alphonse doubtfully, stepping out of the way as a patient swathed in a coat limped past him. "Maybe the colonel just made a mistake."

"Have you met the guy? Mustang doesn't _make_ mistakes." Edward snorted indignantly. "At least, not about small details like this. I just know he's plotting something again, but what?"

"Well, _I_ think that you're just searching for an excuse to visit the colonel," grinned Al. "You still haven't told him about Ling, right?"

Edward cocked his head, expression contorting uncertainly. "I dunno. Do you think he'll be mad when he finds out that Ling is here with a Philosopher's Stone?"

"Why would he? And since when do _you_ care whether or not you make the colonel mad?"

"You're right." Ed scowled and shook his head fiercely. "Damn it. These past few weeks have totally messed up my internal Mustang-is-a-pompous-asshole compass. I think I'm getting rusty."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing –" Al's sarcastic reply was interjected by a sudden hubbub ensuing by the entrance.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!"

"Excuse me –"

The Elric brothers swivelled as one, and Edward narrowed his golden eyes as he caught a glimpse of familiar raven hair and a flash of a worn black coat.

"I _knew_ it."

"Brother, wait!" Alphonse called after him uselessly as Ed stormed right up to the hulking man whom the colonel was trying to pacify.

Mustang had both gloved hands – normal gloves, Edward was thankful to see – raised in a placating manner. A dark red leash was hooked around his wrist, and at the end of it Black Hayate sat at his feet, barking energetically at the person whom the colonel had unintentionally bumped into.

"Get that dog away from me!" The man crowed, cradling a half empty cup of coffee in his hands as he displayed the prominent brown stain on his shirt. "Look what you did to my clothes!"

"Hayate! Down, boy!" Mustang instructed sternly. But Black Hayate was a sensitive creature, and having heard the hard edge to the aggravated man's tone, simply growled menacingly and barked even louder. It seemed that even Hawkeye's dog took her job of protecting the colonel seriously.

"Hey! Get lost, you bastard." Edward smoothly stepped in front of the colonel, crossing his good arm in front of his chest. He scowled right up at the fair-haired man who had been causing his superior officer grief. "Colonel, this guy giving you trouble?"

"Fullmetal?" The surprise in Mustang's tone quickly shifted to irritation. "I can fight my own battles, thank you very much."

"Well, you shouldn't even be _fighting_ any battles at all!" Edward pointedly shot back.

Mustang was wearing dark glasses to match his coat – he pushed these a little further up his nose and scowled. As the colonel shifted uncomfortably on his crutch, unable to rely on his useless fractured ankle, Edward's eyes were drawn to the silver chain attached to his belt.

Quick as lightning, Ed snatched up Mustang's silver pocketwatch before the latter could even muster up the words to protest. Brandishing the State Alchemist insignia engraved on its surface, Ed grinned toothily and said in a low voice: "Trust me, you wouldn't want to mess with us."

The man with the spilled coffee blinked – even if he wasn't familiar with the nationwide symbol of a State Alchemist, he would certainly recognize its connection to the military's own unique emblem.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and the man whirled around to see Alphonse smiling sweetly up at him. "You should listen to my brother. Things usually get ugly when he's mad."

Al's gentle threat was very effective, as the man simply frowned at them, gritted his teeth, and strode away.

Edward sighed and dropped Mustang's watch back into his pocket. "You should be more careful with that, colonel. There're pickpockets all around East City."

Mustang simply shot him what appeared to be his equivalent of a reproaching glare before turning and hobbling awkwardly towards the revolving doors. Black Hayate yipped and obediently led the way for his temporary master.

"You could at least say thank you!" called out Ed in annoyance.

After a few customary curses, Mustang managed to shove his way through the doors and into the brilliant sunlight. Edward caught up with him a moment later, expression appropriately exasperated. "And where the hell do you think you're going?"

"That's none of your business, Fullmetal," retorted Mustang curtly. "If you'll excuse me, I have a train to catch."

"A train!?" shouted Edward in disbelief. "You gotta be fucking kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm being funny, Fullmetal?"

"Now _you_ listen here, I'm not letting you just run off on your – wait, you're not even supposed to be out of your room –"

A small gasp of surprise escaped his superior officer's lips as the end of his crutch hit empty air – having evidently forgotten that the hospital's entrance opened onto a wide stone staircase. He stumbled and would have plummeted all the way down the steps and broken his _other_ ankle if Ed hadn't snapped out a hand and grabbed the back of his coat.

Mustang swung backwards and sat down heavily on the top of the stairs, trying to catch his breath.

"Damn it." He muttered viciously.

Edward's anger melted away as he stared down at the dark-haired man. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to rely on other people a little more."

"I _know_ I'm practically useless, Elric – you don't have to rub it in every five seconds."

Edward raised an eyebrow at his frustrated tone and glanced back at Al. His younger brother frowned and nodded encouragingly, spurring him on.

Mustang sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Damn, I promised myself I wouldn't think like that anymore. But damn, damn, _damn_ today of all days for me to be cooped up here with a broken leg and a dozen stitches." He pressed a hand to the new scars on his stomach at the thought.

Ed blinked. "Does this have to do with you going somewhere in a rush?"

Mustang rested his chin on the crosspiece of the crutch he'd snagged from the hospital and didn't reply. Hayate, sensing his tumultuous mood, whined and burrowed his nose into the man's gloved hand.

The colonel smiled slightly and scratched Black Hayate behind the ears. "I'm going back to Central City."

"Central? But why?"

"It's today, isn't it?" intoned Alphonse softly, and Edward whirled around, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

"What day?"

Al glanced futilely at the colonel, expecting him to volunteer an answer – but he didn't. Finally, the younger Elric answered faintly: "It's the day Brigadier General Hughes died."

Edward clenched his fists and snatched his head away, not wanting his brother to bear witness to the pain in his eyes.

"Oh. I…see."

"Why didn't you just ask Lieutenant Hawkeye to take you, colonel?" asked Alphonse slowly. "I'm sure she'll understand."

"She's been through enough. I don't want her to have to deal with me today." Mustang shook his head. "Hawkeye deserves to be _happy_ for once."

Edward rolled his eyes to the heavens. "And how do you expect to find your way to the train station when you clearly can't tell the difference between level ground and a flight of stairs?"

Mustang's sombre expression instantly morphed into one of boiling annoyance. "I can certainly _try_ , Fullmetal. It's been nearly five months – I think I would've learned how to move around by myself after all that time."

Edward snorted loudly. He exchanged a cautious look with Alphonse, who smiled wryly at his brother and spread out his arms in the universal gesture of: ' _Whatever floats your boat._ '

The Fullmetal Alchemist scrubbed the back of his neck and sighed dramatically for the sake of exaggerated sound effects.

"Ah geez. Why do I _have_ to be such a nice person?"

"You're not." Mustang retorted.

Edward rolled his eyes. "I _am_ , because what the hell – I'm coming with you."

Mustang blinked and his eyes narrowed behind his tinted glasses. "Now hold on a –"

Being familiar with how the colonel operated, Ed smoothly cut off any further signs of protest with a satisfied grin.

"Al, looks like we're heading to Central."

* * *

 _ **South City, Amestris**_

 _ **Present Day, 1915**_

The people of South City called it the Waverley Incident.

As local lore had it, Lieutenant General Waverley was one of richest men in the south, having returned from border skirmishes with Aerugo as a renowned military officer. That fateful year, like every other year, a grand Christmas party was being held at Waverley Mansion, with many high-ranking South City officers and their families on the 'distinguished guests' list.

But the party never made it all the way through the end. When Central City troops arrived late that night, having being tipped off that the Ishvalan extremist group the 'Red Cavalry' would be making a hit on the venue, all they found were trays of cold hors d'oeuvres, open bottles of champagne, and a wholly empty estate.

They say that the guests – all one hundred and thirty-six of them – had simply vanished without a trace. Some people speculated that a government conspiracy was involved; others used this opportunity to preach about the existence of aliens to their peers. But the Waverley Incident quickly faded into a distant local myth after several weeks as the military tried their best to hush up the situation. The mansion and its large grounds had since then fallen into decrepitude, having lost its entire line of heirs and heiresses in a single fell swoop.

Perhaps if an alchemist who knew the truth about the Nationwide Transmutation Circle were to carefully review the old case files, they would certainly find the stray blood stains and the rather convenient shape of the large hedge maze which surrounded the mansion grounds rather suspicious. For aestheticism's sake, the maze had been grown into a perfect circle which spiralled inwards towards the venue of the party – a spacious outdoor garden which was Mrs. Waverley's pride and joy.

But even if someone _had_ deciphered the mystery of the Waverley Incident, they would never have guessed that one of its perpetrators would return after all these years, nor would they guess that the very object created by this ungodly act would have been left behind.

It was child's play for an alchemist, for all that he was purely self-taught, to bypass the rusted metal fence meant to keep out trespassers. The abandoned mansion had quickly become a hotspot for vandals and graffiti artists, and its once magnificent walls were utterly devastated. But the state of the Waverley home was nothing compared to the overrun and dilapidated garden.

The slight figure dressed in a worn travelling coat had to force his way through the tangled mess of weeds and shrubs with first his hands, then his alchemy.

Being back here brought to mind memories of vague terror and pride. It was surprisingly simple for his cousins to persuade their leader to provide the necessary manpower in enacting his plan – of course, the highly sought for prize which he promised was plenty motivation enough. The hard leader of the Red Cavalry was no alchemist, but even he understood exactly what kind of power such an object could give his group.

Once the guests had all been subdued (it turned out that the lieutenant general was no fighter), several of them were led out and killed at designated points on the circle. With the design in place, the transmutation itself was easy, and none of his so-called 'allies' had the necessary alchemic knowledge to know that the only safe point in the circle was its centre.

He would never forget the ecstasy and horror he felt when the ground had turned red and the people had started screaming. There was the satisfaction of successfully completing his first major transmutation, but he'd never really thought that this would also be his very first act of blatant murder.

He arrived at a large tree stubbornly blocking off part of the maze. There were still slight transmutation marks at its base, and after examining them, he placed his hands on the gnarled trunk and breathed in deeply.

Two years ago, after the transmutation had been completed, his enigmatic pursuers had made their appearance.

The strange lady with the spear-like hands and the fat man who kept asking if he could eat them – it was immediately apparent that they were not human, and that he and his cousins were as good as dead if they stuck around. His alchemy and their guns were only as effective as lobbing paper pellets at them, and Xandria, who was convinced that they were after their prize, had forced him to hide _it_ on the mansion grounds.

They'd escaped South City banged up but alive. He smiled cynically as he recalled that it'd taken the too-beautiful lady less than a day to capture him on a train back to East City.

He could almost feel her razor sharp claws scraping past the skin of his neck again, the metal wall of the luggage compartment digging into his back. Her low, seductive voice calmly threatening disembowelment if he so much as moved a finger. She'd asked him that day, what he made that _thing_ for, and he'll never forget what he told her.

He dusted off his chalk-smeared hands, cocking his head as he surveyed the neat circle he'd scratched into the bark.

Just as he'd never forget her reply.

The circle flared with energy when he pressed his hands to it, warming his skin and sending a delightful shiver up his spine. Alchemy, and the feel of it beneath his fingertips, was like an addictive drug – and for an instance he could understand why State Alchemists did what they did.

The tree he'd given life to that night withered at the same alarming rate, the leaves curling and falling on his shoulders like dry rain. The branches disintegrated into ash, and the knotted trunk unravelled like thick cords of thread, revealing a faint red glow nestled within its bosom.

The light pulsed like a pounding heartbeat, and he reached into the now-hollow tree, feeling his fingers close around a smooth, pebble-like object.

The lady had said to him that day:

 _I like the look in your eyes, Ishvalan alchemist. Perhaps you will one day show me, what hell that burning hatred can procure._

He felt his lips curl into a satisfied smile as he held the red gemstone up to the light. The Philosopher's Stone – the ultimate prize of alchemy – glimmered ethereally like a waking nightmare, its scarlet depths swirling and writhing. For a moment, he thought he could hear the screams again, the tortured whispers by his ear.

He clenched his fist around the Stone and plunged it into his pocket, hand trembling.

Evan Blake couldn't help but wonder if the ravishing dark-haired stranger was still around to witness the hellfire this sinful thing would help him create.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **And _finally_ things are starting to pick up a little! Almost there, damn it! **


	19. Interlude 2-The Elrics walk into a bar

**Author's Note:**

 **Well, sorry if this is disappointing, but I decided to post that long overdue 100 reviews one-shot (yup, I'm sure everyone has forgotten such a thing existed). But hey, life's been tough, okay?**

 **This one-shot was requested by Red (you're awesome!), and I have to admit that I'm guilty of choosing the easiest way out of this. The request was regarding Ed and Al's first meeting with Madame Christmas. To be honest, this didn't turn out exactly as I imagined it to be and I'm not completely happy with it, but if I was happy with every chapter I posted this story would never see the end of time.**

 **Don't worry though! I'm still planning on compiling the other one-shot ideas into a single update after the epilogue.**

 **For the actual storyline, I'm currently working on the last couple of chapters as fast as I can so I can update them consecutively (I believe in building momentum). Expect the next update to be on a weekend in two weeks (three at most).**

 **A quick note about reviews: I usually PM every reviewer, but ffnet's email system has been weird lately and I realized I missed a fair number from the previous weeks. So if you didn't get a reply I sincerely apologize and I promise I'll check the actual site next time!**

 **THANK YOU SO MUCH for the support! _110 followers!?_ That's an amazing milestone! I honestly never expected to get this far. **

**As always, please please please drop me a review/fav/follow if you liked it! (or even if you didn't, constructive criticism makes the world go round.) And please, don't take this bonus chapter too seriously. ;P**

Reply to Guest: Thank you kindly! School really has been messing up my writing schedule so sorry for the wait!

Reply to Red: I loved your review! I have to admit I miss the days I was organized enough to update weekly *laughs*, but I'm working it. Your review really made me smile and I'm so, so glad you enjoyed the last chapter! (It was a 'tie-up-all-the-loose-ends' sort of chapter so I was worried I was rambling on too much).

* * *

 _Interlude 2 – The Elric brothers walk into a bar…_

… _This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?_

* * *

 _ **Central City, Amestris**_

 _ **1913**_

"So, would you consider your superior officer to be an ideal role model?"

"...This is a joke, right?"

Edward Elric rolled his eyes and threw himself back against the scratchy cushions, lazily toying with the chain of his silver pocketwatch.

Warrant Officer Vato Falman raised one eyebrow from the identical couch directly across the alchemist, thoughtfully tapping his pen against the pages of an open notebook. "This is Internal Affairs, and you're a young, impressionable child of twelve –"

The Fullmetal Alchemist shot straight up from his reclining position, bristling like a porcupine – a very vengeful and golden-haired one. " _Adolescent!_ " He corrected haughtily. "And goddamn it Falman, I'm _fourteen_ this year!"

Falman had the decency to furrow his eyebrows daintily. "Fourteen. Yes, I meant to say that."

Ed sank back into the couch with a childish huff, gears and metal joints creaking as he crossed his automail arm over his human one. "What's all this Internal Affairs stuff got to do with me anyway?"

"The Internal Affairs department carries out annual inspections on military officers ranking lieutenant colonel and higher," piped up Sergeant Fuery helpfully from his desk. "Officially, it's to 'better understand how the daily lives of Amestrian soldiers are spent' and to 'make sure that all superior officers are competent and proficient' –"

"But we all know that it's just an excuse to blatantly investigate officers the higher-ups think may pose a threat to them," chuckled Breda. "That's why the colonel always gets it _every single year_. They can't seem to get enough dirt on him."

"And so they interview his subordinates?" Edward snorted indignantly. "What a bunch of dumbasses."

Breda let loose a delighted hoot at Ed's coarse wording. If there was one thing he admired about the younger State Alchemist, it was his sheer bluntness and audacity. "Careful there, Edward. Misstep and you could be charged for insubordination."

"Well," stated Fuery nervously. "Considering the row you had with the colonel yesterday, you should _already_ be charged for insubordination."

"Hey! Colonel Bastard started it." Edward scowled darkly. "All I did was _ask him for a ride_ – how bloody hard could that be? But _noooo_ , he had something _important_ to do, something which probably involved the – I dunno – the pretty lady sitting next to him in the passengers' seat? Come on, I missed my train for one of his dates! He deserves to be called a self-absorbed bastard at least several times."

Breda outright burst into peals of laughter at this, while Fuery merely squirmed uneasily, valiantly fighting back a smile.

"You still haven't answered the question, Edward." Falman reminded him stoically.

Edward gritted his teeth. " _Well_ , I think that Colonel Roy Mustang is a big-headed, egotistical weasel who should remove his head from his ass and actually _do his job_ sometimes. And if someone like _him_ is my role model then my life may as well be fucking screwed."

The fourteen-year-old folded his arms behind his head and smirked widely, satisfied at his extremely colourful display of language.

By now, Breda was laughing so hard he was doubled over on the floor, and Fuery released a nervous little hiccup which sounded suspiciously like a giggle.

"I hope that's not what you actually plan to say to the officer from Internal Affairs, Edward." A cool, calm voice sounded from the other side of the office, effectively cutting off Breda's snorts of uncontrollable laughter.

Ed shifted his head to stare at Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, who was nonchalantly organizing a stack of paperwork into a separate stack of files.

He grinned wickedly. "But that's the truth, isn't it?"

Hawkeye glanced up, her amber eyes meeting Edward's fiery ones straight on. "I thought you would know better, Edward. 'Truth' isn't always that simple."

Ed blinked, caught off-guard. The doors to office slammed open, and Lieutenant Jean Havoc staggered in like a dead man risen from the grave.

He plucked a crushed cigarette from his lips and dropped a crumpled brown notebook into Falman's lap. " _Never_ ask me to follow him into the changing room again." The blonde lieutenant shivered involuntarily. "Running into a fully undressed Major Armstrong is _not_ worth it."

Before Falman could properly express his condolences, Edward swooped in and snatched the notebook from his grasp. "Hullo, what do we have here?"

He cackled madly when he read the words scribbled onto the cover in black marker.

 _ **Colonel Mustang Surveillance Log: Dated 1913**_

"If this is part of that so called inspection, then I'm beginning to warm up to Internal Affairs a little." Edward flicked through the pages, all filled with small handwriting of various degrees of neatness – methodically recording date, time and observation.

"We take turns following the colonel around," explained Breda, patting Havoc on the shoulder sympathetically as the second lieutenant continued to stagger on towards his desk. "It's more for the fun of it than for Internal Affairs."

Edward leaned forwards. "Can I have th – I mean, I would be _more than happy_ to help out my fellow colleagues."

The alchemist smiled winningly, though he couldn't quite dampen the devilish glint in his molten eyes.

Falman and Breda exchanged glances. Breda shrugged. "Sure, as long as he doesn't catch onto you."

"Oh, I'm a complete _master_ at subterfuge."

Falman coughed awkwardly into his hand at Ed's (totally untrue) comment. The door chose this exact moment to slam open a second time, admitting a familiar silhouette of dark blue and crow-feather black, his hair newly damp from the showers.

He paused at the threshold, a smirk already creeping onto his face as he cocked an eyebrow at Edward. "Still here, Fullmetal? I thought you and Alphonse were taking a trip down west."

Ed's grin morphed into a venomous snarl. "We missed our train. No thanks to a certain _someone_."

Colonel Roy Mustang shrugged in uncaring nonchalance, folded his arms neatly behind his back, and strode towards the doors of the inner office without so much as a glance behind him.

Edward bristled.

That pompous, conceited, _insufferable_ –

"Oh, and Fullmetal?" Mustang paused with a gloved hand on the doorknob, trademark smirk lodged firmly on his lips. "Surely you aren't so petty-minded as to still be steaming over such a _small and insignificant_ matter –"

Edward was on his feet and screaming even before the colonel could slip into his office and slam the door behind him, chuckling every step of the way. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING A MINISCULE PIPSQUEAK!?"

The teenager clamped his mouth shut at a reproaching glance from Hawkeye and growled dangerously.

Oh boy.

This meant _vengeance._

* * *

 _ **1100 hours – Spends an hour teaching Black Hayate how to balance a biscuit on his nose while he should CLEARLY BE DOING HIS PAPERWORK.**_

"Um, brother?"

 _ **1200 hours – Has lunch in the cafeteria. Gets into an argument over the final piece of quiche (really?). Good thing he left his gloves in the office.**_

"Brother."

 _ **1530 hours – Hawkeye finally threatens him into signing documents. He starts feeding the birds outside his window the MOMENT she leaves.**_

" _Brother._ "

 _ **1615 hours – Falls asleep on his desk. Newsflash, he**_ **snores** _ **. What a dumbass.**_

"Brother," intoned Alphonse in frustration, and being twice the size of his older brother, leaned down and plucked the notebook from Ed's fingers with practiced ease.

Edward swore when the tip of his pencil clanged off the knee of his metal leg and snapped, swivelling around to glare at the hulking suit of armour. "Give. That. Back."

"You're being _creepy_ , brother." If armours could frown, Alphonse would have promptly done so.

"Orders from Internal Affairs," snorted Ed, wriggling his fingers at Al in a commanding gesture to hand him his property back. "And so what? The bastard _deserves_ to have his deepest, darkest secrets dug up and used against him for once."

"Like the fact that Colonel Mustang likes feeding birds?"

Ed was about to retort that feeding wild animals was every bit as evil and demonic as calling the Fullmetal Alchemist short when Alphonse hushed him with a sudden hiss. "He's coming!"

Edward darted behind the nearest stone column, while Al, being rather unfortunately big, somehow managed to insert himself into a convenient broom closet. Alphonse dropped the surveillance log while trying to force the door shut, and Edward expertly hooked it over with his leg.

Al did _not_ look happy. Ed stuck out his tongue as he flipped open the notebook.

Mustang was too engaged in his current conversation with General Raven to notice the cleverly 'camouflaged' Elric brothers, and the two men walked right past their hiding place.

"Were you heading out for an inspection, Colonel Mustang?" Raven was remarking good-naturedly.

His younger subordinate was uncharacteristically more stoic than usual, crisp footsteps ringing off the polished marble walls. "Yes sir."

Their voices faded down the hallway. Edward cautiously stuck his head out from behind the pillar, and made a quick note in his log:

 _ **1706 hours. Leaves Central Command for an 'inspection'?**_

The final letter 'n' was besmirched as Ed nimbly leapt out of the way before Alphonse could reclaim the notebook. "Come on, Al! Or I'm leaving you behind!"

"Brother, wait! Brother, _why are we stalking the colonel!?_ "

* * *

As Alphonse put it, it was sorta, kinda, a bit, like stalking.

Except that he had a completely legitimate reason for it.

Okay, maybe he _was_ just mad and wanted something he could blackmail Mustang with. Like a mortifying childhood photograph, or some evidence of humiliating defeat – _something_ to prove that no matter how much Colonel Matchstick acted like it he _was not better than the rest of them_ (it was too bad that Hughes wouldn't let him into his secret stash of embarrassing Roy-Mustang-doing-dumb-shit photos).

But when the colonel parked his car down a busy street, walked the last several blocks to a suspicious-looking dark alley, and proceeded to enter an even _more_ suspicious-looking bar – Edward had to admit that even he was in _way_ over his head.

Ed chewed his lip as he observed a beautiful lady – the same woman who was in the colonel's car the day before – fling her arms around Mustang's neck the moment he opened the door. Light and sound and the smell of beer spilled out into the falling evening like a nauseating avalanche as she smiled alluringly and hooked long, pale fingers around his arm.

"I've missed you _so_ much, Roy! Where have you been?"

"It's only been a day, Veronica." Mustang easily returned her smile with one of his own, and Edward had to resist the urge to gag. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Impatient now, are we?" 'Veronica' teased, shimmering turquoise dress swishing hypnotically as she pressed herself closer to him.

Mustang cupped her shoulder with his free hand and grinned. "I'm supposed to be on duty, but I'm simply _dying_ for a drink." His obsidian eyes flashed. "Got any good recommendations?"

The woman's full lips curved into a knowing smile. "Plenty. Come on in and take off your coat."

The door clicked shut behind them, the colonel's rather conspicuous military uniform disappearing from Edward's sight.

The golden-haired alchemist scribbled furiously in his notebook, snapped it shut, and tapped his pencil against his lower lip. He'd stuffed his flashy red cloak into Alphonse's empty armour to keep a low profile, while Al had somehow been coerced into donning an awkwardly ill-fitting brown cloak.

Al leaned down, metal joints creaking, almost comical in his ineffective disguise. "Can we _please_ go back now, brother?"

Edward frowned, shook his head in determination, and stuck the business end of his pencil at the incriminating bar. "We _have_ to get in there."

"Brother!" Alphonse hissed. "That's a _bar_ , with _alcohol_ , and I'm thirteen while you're fourteen!"

Edward shrugged and sprung away before Alphonse could stop him.

"You're _supposed_ to be setting a good example for me!"

Ed ducked his head down and cautiously nudged open the rickety wooden door.

The pungent stench of heavy booze slammed into his face like the mother of all sucker punches, and the alchemist nearly doubled over at the sudden wave of nausea which accompanied it.

Work hadn't let out just yet, so the barroom was relatively empty. The low buzz of conversation instantly ceased at the metallic clank of Ed's automail foot, and a dozen or so eyes turned to stare at him.

Edward set his jaw and glared back ferociously. A very flustered Al entered a moment later, flailing his arms in exasperation. "Brother, I can't believe you –"

The bar-goers directed their attention upwards to stare at Alphonse. Ed, for the millionth time in his relatively short life, cursed his height once again. Surrounded on all sides by these intoxicated adults, he was never more painfully aware that he _was_ just a child.

The room was silent as Edward made his way up to the mahogany bar, colouring slightly when he struggled to hoist himself up onto one of the tall wooden chairs. Now seated, he let his golden eyes roam the room, daring anyone who met his gaze to prove he didn't belong here.

He snapped back with a start when he realized that the colonel was nowhere to be found. Edward skimmed past the foreign faces a second time, even though he was confident he could pick out that distinct raven hair and dark eyes in a crowded arena from a hundred metres away.

"What can I do for you today, _boys_?"

Ed swivelled back around to face the bar, blinking once as a dark shadow towered over him, an almost poetic foreshadowing of impending doom.

 _Holy shit._

The woman behind the bar was an imposing persona of luxury and authority, all painted lips and fur-trimmed coat and expensive bourbon. Slowly, _very_ slowly, she lighted a cigarette held in between her teeth, took a long, _long_ drag, and released a thin stream of grey smoke into the already murky air.

Keen black eyes sliced down to regard him sharply. Edward had to resist the urge to drop down and cower behind the bar.

"Am I really getting so old that my eyes deceive me?" The lady leaned one arm casually against the bar – _her_ bar, for her commanding air left little to no doubt that she was the proud proprietress of this establishment. "Tell me, little boy. How old did you say you were again?"

Ed felt his hackles rise at the word 'little', but he did not immediately burst into a tirade of enraged shouts and threats of murder.

For Edward, being the child genius that he was, had no problem recognizing the fact that making this woman his enemy was an appallingly _dumb_ move.

He cleared his throat and raised himself to his full height (which was not very tall, especially since he was sitting down). "I don't believe I've mentioned my age."

The richly garbed proprietress simply raised one perfectly curved eyebrow, a gesture which Edward found disturbingly familiar. "Excuse me for not phrasing my question clearly. Let me approach this from another angle instead: do you know what the Amestrian legal drinking age is?"

Ed struggled to come up with some smartass remark, but all he could produce on such short notice was: "Uh?"

" _Eight. Teen._ " The woman pronounced each syllable with dramatic clarity, breathing out another stifling cloud of smoke as she did so. "Correct me if I'm wrong, little boy, but I am fairly certain that you are _not_ eighteen."

Edward scowled, but forced himself to remain still.

She crushed the glowing tip of her cigarette in a conveniently placed ash tray. "Your armoured companion can stay, but _you_ ," quick as lighting, she swiped her hand up, letting her cigarette hover a mere inch away from Edward's nose. " _You_ , get the hell out until you're a few years older – or a few inches taller for that matter, if you expect me to believe that you're old enough to simply walk into _my_ bar."

At his shoulder, Ed could almost feel Alphonse swallow.

Edward clenched his jaw, rapidly nearing his breaking point for being bombarded with synonyms of 'small' in a single day. Yanking out his State Alchemist watch, Ed slammed it onto the scratched surface.

He smiled tightly. "Actually, I'm not here for a drink, shockingly enough. I'm here on official business, unless you'd like to question the authority of a State Alchemist."

The woman simply raised her other eyebrow at the sight of the infamous silver pocketwatch. "My sincerest apologies, Mr. State Alchemist," she tapped a single scarlet fingernail against her hip. "Pray tell, what official business could the military possibly have with my honest little business?"

"Well –" Ed felt his face grow hot as he hastily fumbled for an excuse. "It's not a _problem_ with this particular establishmentper say…I'm looking for a military officer who entered this bar about five minutes ago – a State Alchemist like myself. Perhaps you've seen him around?"

The woman's face was an impenetrable mask. "A military officer? Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?"

"Well…" Maybe Mustang had simply gone out through the back door or something – he could have realized that Edward was tracking him and led him here as a ruse. But if this lady could point him in the right direction, at least his trip down to this seedy place wouldn't have been a complete wild goose chase. "Standard military uniform. Black hair. Kinda smug looking."

Ed could literally feel Alphonse's disapproving stare boring into his back. "The sort of face that makes you want to punch it in."

The woman let lose a low, throaty chuckle. "Unfortunately, you are the only State Alchemist to have graced my humble bar with their presence today."

Ed pushed himself back from the bar, dumbfounded. "What're you talking about? I _saw_ him come in here."

"You should get those eyes of yours checked out then," she remarked casually. "As beautifully stunning as they are, your vision could very well be failing."

Ed bit back a sharp retort. "I _know_ what I saw."

"You don't sound like you believe me," the woman straightened and readjusted her glamorous coat. "How about this, Mr. Alchemist? As you can see, the person you're looking for is clearly not _here_. However, I do have some extra rooms at the back which I use for storage – if you'd like to check them out to soothe your suspicions, then be my guest."

Edward hesitated. Instead of plunging into the thick of things (as usual), he _actually_ hesitated.

But this had long since ceased to become a childish prank he was playing on the colonel.

Ed raised his golden eyes, meeting the intensely dark gaze of the bar's proprietress. They were like twin voids, those eyes, devastating in their intelligence and shrewdness. They reminded him of someone, but he was too preoccupied to pinpoint who.

The woman smiled and lit another cigarette, cupping a hand around the glowing flame of her lighter. Her tone was pointed, challenging almost. "I'm waiting for your decision, alchemist."

 _Dammit._

 _I_ know _I saw him come in here._

 _So where is he? And why is this woman lying to me?_

"Brother…" rumbled Alphonse warningly.

Edward raised a hand to indicate that he understood Al's anxiety.

 _What happened to the colonel?_

The Fullmetal Alchemist smiled back in a manner just as sharp. "If you wouldn't mind showing us around, then?"

"Of course," answered the woman, already striding around the bar as she waved for the Elric brothers to follow her. "Rosetta, dear!"

A young girl with pretty brown braids and wide green eyes appeared from where she'd been chatting to one of their customers. "Yes, Madame?"

"We have some…unexpected guests today. Would you mind giving them the tour?"

The girl cocked her head at the sight of the bizarrely dissimilar brothers, before smiling brightly. "Hello, nice to meet you."

Despite himself, Edward felt his cheeks flush. "I'm Edward. This is my brother, Alphonse."

"She was talking to me," whispered Al mischievously.

Edward kicked his foot backwards, hitting Al's metal shin with a satisfying _clang!_ "Shut up."

Ed turned around to address the proprietress. "Won't you be coming with us?"

"Certainly," she said regally, sweeping past them to unlock an unassuming door next to the bar. "I'll be right behind you."

"Thank you, uh –"

"You can call me 'Madame'," the lady retrieved the lit cigarette from her lips and crossed her arms.

"Madame Christmas."

* * *

The thing about the girl was that she was so distractingly _cute._

Edward caught himself flushing as Rosetta smiled quaintly at him and flicked on a dusty switch.

A single light bulb flickered on, dimly illuminating a short corridor lined with closed doors. At the very end of it, obscured by shadow, a winding staircase led upstairs to the second floor.

Ed barely heard the door slam shut behind them as Rosetta led him by the sleeve down the hallway. "So are you a _real_ State Alchemist, Mr. Edward?"

"Of course I am." Edward attempted and failed to puff out his chest self-importantly. "After all, I have the pocketwatch to prove it, don't I?"

Rosetta giggled as Edward experimentally stuck his head into one of the rooms. Madame Christmas followed silently behind, puffing on her cigarette. _Christmas._ It was certainly an odd name.

"What about you, Mr. Alphonse?"

"Oh, me?" responded Al, suddenly bashful. "I'm an alchemist, just like my brother. But I didn't get myself certified."

"My certification is good enough for both of us." Edward sniggered slyly. "Though, I _am_ definitely the better alchemist –"

"Brother!" Al protested. "That's not fair!"

"Hush, hush, my dear _younger_ brother. _I_ am the one who can perform transmutations without a circle."

Alphonse made a strange gurgle within his armour which sounded suspiciously like a pout. Rosetta's bright smile never left her face. "Just out of curiosity, Mr. Alchemist, what are you _actually_ doing out here in a shady place like this?"

"Hmm?" murmured Edward distractedly, pushing open a door which led to yet another empty storage room. "Nothing much. I'm just looking for someone."

"Really? Why?"

Edward was about to answer: ' _No reason – just that I was low-key spying on my superior officer to unearth some kind of dirt on him, and now that he's somehow disappeared I_ have _to find out where he went_ ', but realizing it would make no sense at all, replied nonchalantly instead: "It's just important."

"Hmm… Is. That. _So?_ "

A familiar _click!_ split the heavy air.

Edward froze as something circular and metallic was shoved firmly into his back.

" _Brother!_ " Alphonse realized what was going on a split second after Edward did, and started forwards for the gleaming shape of the revolver.

"I would stay where I am if I were you, Mr. Alphonse Elric," remarked Rosetta coolly, her tone as unnervingly bright as before. "After all, I wouldn't want to slip and _accidentally_ shoot a certain golden-haired midget."

Edward growled, but having no other option, cautiously raised his hands in reluctant surrender. "Do _not_ call me that."

Rosetta trilled in delightful laughter. "I guess the rumours _are_ true then – you really arereally sensitive about your height, Mr. Fullmetal Alchemist."

If he weren't currently held at gunpoint, Edward – being proudly indiscriminate of gender and ethnicity – would have promptly clapped his hands and sent the girl sprawling. But with the situation as it was, all he could do was stand still and fume.

"Well done, Rosetta." Stilettos clicked sharply against parquet as Madame Christmas strode forwards to stand before Edward.

Ed scowled threateningly. Christmas smiled, wholly unthreatened. "So, the Fullmetal Alchemist and his doting little brother. I think we may have started off on the wrong foot earlier, so I'll rephrase my question from before – to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Edward pressed his lips together, furiously putting together the scattered pieces of a plan but advancing no further than 'getting the hell out of here'. "You knew who we were, didn't you? You knew who we were the _second_ we stepped through those doors."

Madame Christmas's smile widened in something like satisfaction. "Of course. But that's not all I was aware of." She stuck a single, disturbingly razor sharp fingernail in his face. "Edward Elric, you lost your arm and leg as a result of committing the unspeakable taboo of human transmutation; Alphonse Elric, you poor, poor soul – you're just an empty suit of armour, aren't you?"

Al visibly started, his metallic frame rattling. "How – How did you –"

"How did I know?" continued Christmas smoothly. "Simple. My line of work deals with secrets – and the Amestrian military is chock-full of those. Fortunately, there are more than a few loose lips around who are more than willing to talk in exchange for some form of suitable…payment."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Whatever it is you want, you leave my brother out of this."

"Tsk, tsk." The dark-haired proprietess clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You clearly have much to learn, Fullmetal Alchemist – the _last_ thing you should do before an enemy is reveal your…weak spot."

She let her cigarette fall to the floorboards, casually squishing it beneath the heel of her shoe.

Ed flinched at the hard shape of Rosetta's gun digging into his drenched skin. "Don't you – don't you dare!"

Christmas took a step back to regard the Elrics with a bemused expression. "Edward Elric. Let me make this very clear – I have absolutely no desire to hurt either you or your brother. But unfortunately, I can't have a State Alchemist sniffing around my bar asking suspicious questions either. So how about…" She smirked. "A compromise?"

Edward stiffened. "I'm listening."

"It's very simple, really." Madame Christmas crossed her arms, and not for the first time Ed found her intimidating presence impressive. "Turn around, walk away, and forget everything you saw here. Never mention this place to _anyone_ , and I'll guarantee you and your brother's safety."

"What's the catch?"

Christmas smiled widely and spread her hands out in a queenly, magnificent gesture. "No catch. It'll be rather unpleasant to have to deal with two children, so I'd very much like to resolve this situation as quickly as possible."

Edward barely had a moment to feel properly offended at being called a child (again), before a sudden, unexpected thought manifested at the forefront of his mind. "What about the colonel?"

The woman's endless black irises were impenetrably cold. "What colonel?"

Ed narrowed his golden eyes into sharp slits. It was high time to stop beating around the bush. "The military officer who was in this bar mere moments before I walked in. _Where is he?_ "

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Christmas remarked nonchalantly, and _darn_ was she good at lying – so good, in fact, that for a split second Edward almost doubted himself.

"Colonel Roy Mustang," growled Edward, even though at the back of his mind a little voice screamed _why the hell are you doing this?_ because he _clearly didn't give a damn_. "What happened to him?"

Christmas's amused smile had completely left her face, replaced by a frown of vague annoyance. "I _said,_ I know of no such person."

"You can't expect me to buy that. You knew who _we_ were, so there's no way in hell you didn't recognize that name."

"You sure are a persistent little brat, aren't you?" Christmas snorted. "Why do you care? Why can't you just walk away, boy?"

Edward's breath caught uncomfortably in his throat.

 _Why couldn't he? Why_ couldn't _he just walk away?_

A small smile curved his lips as he realized the answer to that was astonishingly _simple_. "Because if I'm not around to save my own superior officer's useless ass, then who will?"

Madame Christmas raised her eyebrows.

"Besides," Ed continued confidently, waving a hand to indicate the wooden walls. "I'm fairly certain that this place isn't exactly soundproof, and I can tell that your bartender here doesn't even have a silencer fitted. Is this _really_ where you want to put a bullet through a State Alchemist?"

Christmas didn't say a word, though her eyes raked across Edward's face in a manner he found extremely disconcerting.

Ed tensed, heart pounding.

Then the big, dark, scary proprietess tossed back her head of long black curls and laughed.

Edward froze in sheer disbelief as she leaned forwards and patted his head as if he were some sort of strange, cuddly animal at the zoo, still guffawing uncontrollably. "You're an interesting one, Fullmetal Alchemist! You're an interesting one!"

"What?"

Edward felt the pressure against his back recede as Rosetta withdrew her gun, cat-like eyes bright. "Does this mean they're cleared, Madame?"

Christmas waved her hand, chuckling softly. "Of course, Rosetta. As of this moment, they're officially cleared."

"Cleared?" Ed spun on his heel to stare incredulously at the girl who was just holding him at gunpoint mere seconds ago, before exchanging a glance with a clearly bewildered Al. "Can someone explain to me what is going –"

" _Fullmetal?_ "

Edward turned his eyes towards the source of the strong baritone voice, eyes widening.

" _Colonel?_ "

Mustang's military boots thumped heavily as he descended the staircase, unscathed, vaguely pissed off, and very much still in one piece.

He paused when he reached the bottom, obsidian eyes landing disapprovingly on Edward.

Ed opened his mouth, but the usual witty retort failed to make its appearance.

 _What was going on here?_

Mustang didn't say a word to his subordinate or to his brother. Instead, he shifted his attention to Madame Christmas, mouth contorting into a tight line. "Madame, I told you to chase them off."

"Chase us –" Ed started vehemently.

The lady shrugged in perfect innocence. "They wouldn't believe you weren't here."

"Why the _heck_ did you even bother trying to convince them I wasn't here? They're underage – you should have just thrown them out at the _door_."

Edward's face grew hot. "Thrown us out –"

"What's the matter, Roy-boy?" Christmas perched a hand on her hips and smiled. "They _are_ yoursubordinates, aren't they? Hand-picked and carefully selected."

Edward felt his jaw hit the ground at the woman's affectionate pet name for the colonel.

Mustang's lips twitched, but he remained unimpressed. "It's different with them."

"Or perhaps, for some reason or another, you don't trust these two?" Christmas challenged evenly.

"I –" Edward felt Mustang's gaze alight on him again before darting back towards Christmas. "It's just…different."

"Now hold on a second!" Ed snapped, marching up to his commanding officer and crossing his arms defiantly. "I believe I have a right to know _WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?_ "

Mustang dropped his eyes to regard his youngest subordinate coolly. "Hello, Fullmetal."

"Don't you _dare_ brush me off like this! Did you know all this time that we were trailing you?"

Mustang seemed tempted to roll his eyes but settled for a dignified snort instead. "It's not rocket science, Fullmetal. Especially since a ten-foot-tall suit of armour doesn't exactly _blend in_."

Ed blinked, finding that he couldn't really argue with that line of logic.

"It's not my fault I'm so big," muttered Alphonse sulkily.

Before Mustang could feel properly guilty for his unintended jibe, a female voice called down from the top of the stairs. "Roy!"

Edward stared as Veronica clattered down the steps hurriedly. "Roy, you forgot this!"

She tugged at his sleeve, pressing the familiar shape of a handgun into his open palm. "We don't want you to burn the whole bar down, now do we?"

Mustang chuckled. "I'll be fine. It's just an information trade."

"You know I don't like you dealing with shady characters." Veronica tenderly brushed away several stray strands of hair from his forehead. "Why did you _have_ to become a military officer, Roy?"

"I can take care of myself." Seeming slightly embarrassed, Mustang gently detached the woman from his arm.

He started towards the door, before stopping and pointing an incriminating finger at Edward. " _You two_. Stay here and don't cause any trouble until I come back." He sighed in exasperation. "I'll drive you back to your hotel."

Edward could only watch in astonishment as Mustang re-entered the noisy barroom, door slamming shut behind him.

"Don't mind him." Veronica, apparently misinterpreting Ed's silence as anger, intoned warmly. "My brother can be a little sharp-tongued at times, but I swear he's only like that when he's stressed."

Edward choked on air. "Your _brother!?_ "

Veronica turned to Madame Christmas in confusion.

"Oh, was I not supposed to mention that?"

* * *

 _Family._

To Edward, family was Alphonse. Family was Mother. Family was Granny Pinako and (grudgingly, he'd admit) Winry Rockbell.

Family was everything to him.

And yet, he'd never really considered what the term 'family' would mean to someone else.

Especially _him._

It was strangely mind-numbing, for he'd started the day swearing on his own grave that he'd uncover all of Mustang's dirty little secrets – and now that he'd actually _discovered_ them…he wasn't quite sure what to do with this information.

Edward paced the length of the small second-floor room restlessly, forced to check himself every ten steps (which was exact distance between the door and the window).

Pushed against the wall was a neatly made bed, and Alphonse had stationed himself gingerly on the edge of the untouched sheets, soulfire eyes following his brother's every move.

Ed sighed loudly to himself and stopped in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, examining the various titles.

Finding them all to be alchemy related texts, a flash of silver on glass caught his eye. Using the bookcase as a makeshift stepping ladder, Edward hoisted himself up to grasp a tiny, plain photoframe resting on the very top shelf.

He stared at the faded black and white picture – a little boy, eight or perhaps nine, was sitting proudly on top of a bar, legs dangling over the edge as he posed with a violin tucked underneath his chin. He was grinning crookedly at the camera, and even in that old, frozen moment caught permanently on film Edward could discern a glimmer of fire in his young eyes.

"Ah, that one's my favourite." A voice resonated from behind him. The Fullmetal Alchemist jumped, nearly dropping the framed picture.

Fumbling and cursing, he clumsily replaced it on the bookshelf before swivelling around.

Madame Christmas was standing casually in the doorway, a bottle and a shot glass clutched in her hands. These she set down on a side table before sweeping past Edward to carefully straighten the silver frame. "But then again, it's the only photograph he allows me to keep," she chuckled to herself. "Said that no one could possibly recognize him at that age."

A clatter of metallic footsteps and Al was peering over Edward's head, scrutinizing the grainy picture. "No way…Is that the _colonel_?"

"Why?" Christmas popped open the bottle and poured herself a drink. "Surprised?"

Edward shrugged. "It's just that…I don't think either of us can imagine the colonel as a – a…"

"Child?" Christmas laughed. "It doesn't seem all that long ago when my little Roy-boy was a tiny lad whose only goal in life was to be a travelling musician when he grew up."

She cocked her head thoughtfully, watching the amber liquid swirl around her glass. "How quickly have things changed."

Edward rubbed his automail arm, absentmindedly running his fingers across its intricate gears. "Just who _are_ you, Madame Christmas?"

"Me?" Christmas smiled enigmatically. "I'm just the owner of a small, unassuming bar in the shadiest part of Central City. That, and since you asked," she raised her glass to Edward in a mock toast. "I'm also Roy Mustang's mother."

She dunked down her drink as both Elrics, not for the first time that evening, gaped shamelessly.

"What? You don't see the family resemblance?"

"Uh –"

Madame laughed huskily. "No need to answer that. Roy-boy may be my son in name and spirit, but he's the furthest thing from it in flesh and blood."

A prolonged moment of silence followed by a soft " _Oh._ " was all the two brothers could procure when the connotations behind Christmas's casual statement slowly sunk in.

Edward didn't ask what happened to Mustang's real parents. Alphonse didn't ask how the colonel came to live with this wondrously strange woman. They certainly _thought_ it – but they knew not to ask.

"They all have their reasons for being here," mused Christmas, and Edward had the feeling she was speaking more to herself than to her enraptured audience. "Some of them chose this life, others I've rescued and raised. It all works out exceedingly well though – this family-but-not-quite of ours, especially for Roy-boy's purposes."

She caught and held Edward's gaze. "It's handy…when everyone thinks you're alone."

Ed bit his lip, fully understanding now.

This seemingly ordinary bar, the constant dates, the obvious flirting with Veronica, the talk about meeting a contact to 'trade information', the secrets he kept.

It certainly _was_ remarkably handy.

"You're his information network." Al was the first to voice this realization.

Madame smiled in amusement."The benefits of being the only boy in the family – his sisters are absolutely guilty of spoiling him stupid. They don't mind going out of their way to keep him…updated on current affairs."

"Do the others know?" asked Edward, scrunching up his eyebrows. "I mean, the team?"

"They do. I have to say that Roy wasn't particularly enthusiastic about it, but his subordinates have to know about my existence if we are to more effectively support his goals."

Christmas tapped her empty glass against the sidetable. "Of course, I had to clear them all first to make sure they could be trusted – paranoia tends to be an occupational hazard in my field of work. Let's see," she counted off her fingers. "I had one of my girls seduce Havoc, had Fuery abducted and low-key threatened, tried to drink Breda under the table, and attempted to bribe Falman. Not surprisingly, they all passed. Hawkeye however, knew about me from the very beginning."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "And me?"

"You weren't willing to walk away when you thought he needed you." The woman's dark eyes twinkled merrily. "I'll take that as a sign that I can trust you – _both_ of you."

"Well," muttered Ed bitterly. _He never told me. Why should he? But still –_

 _He never told me._

"Apparently the feeling isn't quite mutual."

Christmas leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes. "Tell me, Edward Elric. Why do you think he always comes up with new assignments and leads for you to chase down?"

Edward snorted. "That's easy. He calls me a 'headache-inducing-brat'. He's probably much happier when I'm gone."

"And why do you think he goes out of his way to flaunt your 'unhappy' work relationship to anyone who cares to listen to your arguments?"

"Because – because that's just what he does!"

"And why," asked Christmas lightly. "Do you think he bothered to drag you all the way from Resembool, help you obtain your state license, and went through a whole lot of trouble to _keep_ you underneath his command?"

"Because –" Edward stalled and hesitated.

"Because the further away people are from him, the safer he thinks they are." Madame tipped her empty glass, allowing it to catch the last rays of the dousing sunlight. "And yet with you brothers, he can't quite let go."

Edward blinked.

"But what my dear, hare-brained son understands deeply yet can't seem to accept, is that he can _never_ succeed on his own." Christmas intoned levelly, pouring more whiskey into her waiting shot glass. "And that's why, I'm glad he keeps you around."

She sipped at the strong-smelling alcohol. Ed clenched his jaw and started forwards to say something, but he was interrupted by a loud rap of knuckles on the open door.

Mustang crossed his arms and leaned casually against the doorframe. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not much – I was just telling your young subordinates about that one time you hid a puppy underneath your bed when you were six," she winked conspiratorially at the Elrics. "Poor boy was heartbroken when I made him turn it out."

Mustang winced. "Madame, _please._ Fullmetal, Alphonse, we're leaving."

"I guess storytime is over." Christmas expertly chugged down her second glass of the evening. Rising from her chair and swaying her hips regally, she strutted right up to her adopted son and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Lowering her voice, she whispered: "These are some good kids you have here. You should be proud of them."

The man instantly flushed. Madame Christmas raised her voice: "And no drinking before you drive!"

She strode down the corridor to the spluttered sounds of her Roy-boy demanding to know what _other_ embarrassing childhood stories she'd revealed.

Veronica was just climbing the stairs when Christmas arrived at the landing.

"How did it go?"

Veronica shifted a single pale shoulder up and down. "Well, Roy didn't have to shoot anyone, so that's a plus. And we managed to get evidence that General Hakuro is having an affair with his secretary."

Christmas whistled softly. "And what is Roy planning to do with that information?"

"He said Hakuro has always had it out for him since day one, so if he tries to undermine him again he'll have a counterattack ready."

Christmas nodded. Veronica smiled in tender amusement as a pair of loudly squabbling voices grew ever louder from the upper floor, interjected by a softer voice insisting on the benefits of calm and reason.

Madame noted her daughter's rare smile. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that –" Veronica tilted her head.

"It's nice to see…we're not the only family he has."

* * *

All things considered, it'd been a pretty rough day at work.

Roy Mustang fumbled unsteadily with the keys to the locked office, cursing the fact that he'd left some unfinished paperwork inside. They would all be returning to East City the following morning (except the Elrics), having completed the joint murder investigation he'd been entrusted with by the Fuhrer, so the only time he had to retrieve those documents was right now.

Sighing as the correct key slid snugly amongst the moving mechanisms, he swung open the door.

Unsurprisingly, the interior of the spare office was starkly empty, the rest of his staff having already gone back to their temporary accommodations.

The sky outside the window was the deep velvet indigo of twilight. He groped briefly for the light switch before trudging into the office and tossing his coat over the couch.

With a low groan, he collapsed back into the uncomfortable cushions and closed his eyes.

 _The Elrics know now._

He snapped them open blearily, not quite sure what to think about the fact that the brothers knew more than he'd ever intended them to find out.

 _Great. I never wanted to get them so deeply involved._

Getting up only to retrieve his paperwork and a small bottle of cheap whiskey from the sideboard, he poured himself a glass and slumped back into the inviting embrace of the sofa.

This part of Central Command was dead silent after hours, and Roy found himself drowning in the blissful quiet and his lonely drink.

He shut his eyes again.

Roy couldn't remember dozing off, nor did he remember ever finishing that one glass of whiskey.

But the next thing he knew when he opened his eyes, he was half-sprawled over the couch, his coat wrapped tightly around him like a blanket.

Roy sat up groggily and rubbed his eyes, staring in confusion at the limp form of his crumpled coat and wondering what had woken him.

The delicious smell of chicken and wheat permeated his nostrils.

On the adjacent coffee table, next to his stack of forgotten paperwork, a freshly made cup of instant noodles steamed merrily. Underneath it was a plain brown notebook.

Carefully removing the notebook from beneath the base of the cup, he flicked through the pages before ending up at the final entry.

Roy raised an eyebrow and shook his head in amusement.

 _ **1906 hours – I find out that my dickhead of a superior officer may be less of a dickhead than he actually is (not by much, mind you!).**_

 _ **I won't tell, if that's what you're worried about. I'm well aware that some secrets should always be kept. Oh, by the way, you won't be seeing me tomorrow – Al and I are heading west to track down another lead on the Stone. Don't call me unless it's important (actually, just don't call me at all).**_

 _ **And for Christ's sake, sleep in an**_ **actual** _ **bed next time, will you? It's not like you can't afford it!**_

Roy snapped the book shut and reached for the noodles, the cup's paper walls delightfully warm in his hands.

He leaned his head back, staring up at the sluggishly moving blades of the broken down fan.

Roy smiled.

Was this what a family felt like?

"Well, thank you to you too."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **If you've watched FMA(2003), you'll recognize where I got the surveillance log from - yes, it _is_ canon (FMA03 canon at least). **


	20. Chapter 18 - F ma

**Author's Note:**

 **And here we are! Officially at the final stretch with only a chapter and an epilogue to go! (probably)**

 **Apologies that I'm a little late on this update - I've been having a case of what I like to call 'writer's-block-due-to-how-the-hell-do-I-end-this-story?', but I'm fine now! (I think?) Did I mention that this is my first fanfic? Yeah, so I think it's justified that ending it is giving me stomach cramps.**

 **I hope this extra long chapter will make up for my tardiness. On that note, considering how much ground I still have to cover, expect the next chapter to be extra, _extra_ long. **

**Fun fact regarding the chapter title - a good friend of mine once said that Physics students who have watched FMA will never forget this particular formula...which is handy because it's one of the most important ones.**

 **And I know I've said this a million times, but thank you so much for supporting this little story of mine! Every favourite, follow, and review all mean so, so much to me. To all readers old and new, THANK YOU!  
**

 **And on that note, drop me one of those if you get the chance!**

Reply to Emmahoshi: I'm so glad you enjoyed it! It was a really strange chapter for me to write which went off the rails at times, but I definitely had fun doing it!

Reply to mixmax300: Aww~ Thanks so much! That really means a lot to me!

Reply to Red: Seriously, no need to apologize. I'm just happy to see that people are still sticking to this even though the final few chapters are taking so long. By the way, I'm pretty sure Veronica isn't canon...? But I'm bad with names and details ;P Thank you so much for the amazing review! I'm so glad you enjoyed it!

* * *

 _Chapter 18 – F = ma_

 _Newton's Second Law of Motion states that_ _ **F**_ _orce =_ _ **M**_ _ass x_ _ **A**_ _cceleration._

 _The more mass an object has, the more force is needed to accelerate it. The greater the force, the greater the object's acceleration._

* * *

 _ **West City, Amestris**_

 _ **1913**_

 _Everything_ was a vague term, a concept which differed depending on who you asked.

To Lust, for example, everything wasn't much at all.

Near-unkillable artificial beings, the Homunculi feared nothing, cared for nothing, sought nothing more than their Father's impassive nod of approval.

Ironic, really. They say that humans were ruled by their inner desires, and yet they had so much _more_ because of it.

Lust dropped her chin onto a daintily curved hand, a curious spectator watching the screaming people and the crackling vortex of souls from the shadowed outdoor balcony. The Philosopher's Stone within her bosom resonated in tandem, but having no true soul of her own, the large transmutation circle failed to ensnare her.

"I guess those humans _can_ still surprise us," she commented to no one in particular. "Who would have thought that an _Ishvalan_ alchemist would be able to discover the secrets of transmuting a Stone?"

By her side, Gluttony blinked and smacked his lips in anticipation. "Can I eat him?"

Lust patted his head absentmindedly, red light rippling across her dark irises. "We'll see about that, Gluttony. We'll see."

The magnificent light show finally spluttered out, and Lust observed as a glimmering stone the size of a small pebble clattered to the ground, a spot of brilliant red in the encroaching darkness.

The Ishvalan alchemist started forward to pick it up.

Lust let herself drop elegantly from the balcony, her fingers elongating into razor sharp spears.

They plunged into stone as her quarry dove out of the way.

Lust retracted her fingers, leaving deep gouges in the ground. "Well, well. What do we have here?"

"Evan! Get out of way!" Lust barely flinched as a barrage of bullets slammed into her chest. Heels skidding across the smooth cobblestones, she raised her hand, Ultimate Spear nearly impaling the white-haired girl holding a handgun.

"Go! _Run!_ "

Lust smiled as the wounds in her stomach sizzled and healed.

The alchemist and his allies were bolting towards the closest opening of the hedge maze, another male Ishvalan covering their retreat with his own hail of bullets. One of them clipped Lust in the shoulder – she didn't blink at the brief burst of pain.

A crackle of blue light indicating the activation of a transmutation circle, the hedge expanded and grew at an impossible speed, branches twisting and stretching to impede her pursuit.

Gluttony bounded up next to her. "Can I eat them? Can I?"

Lust eyed the mass of transmuted shrubbery distastefully. "Forget about them for a moment. You can track down that alchemist later anyway, can't you, Gluttony?"

Her 'brother' cocked his head in confusion. "So…I can't eat them?"

"Not yet, but you'll have a lot of other things to fill your belly." Lust smiled endearingly and pointed at the scattered bodies littering the mansion grounds. "It looks like we have some clean-up work, Gluttony. Make sure that there are no leftovers."

Gluttony brightened, the picture of an innocent child. "Yes, Lust!"

Turning her back on the gruesome sounds of crunching and squelching, Lust tapped a finger against delicate lips.

"Now…what to do about that Philosopher's Stone?" She mused.

~.~

Metal screeched and sparked as tar black fingers sharp as blades sunk deep into the riveted wall.

Her quarry gasped once as blood beaded on the tanned curve of his neck. He grasped the long, slender form of Lust's Spear, reflexively trying to wrench it away to relieve his constricted windpipe.

Lust cocked her head, watching the young man squirm and struggle like a live insect pinned to a board. Two of her elongated fingers held him firmly in place by the neck, while her other hand hovered just above his stomach, a constant threat of a slow, painful death.

"Hold still, Ishvalan mouse," she cooed softly. "Now where is it?"

"I…don't know…" He wheezed, struggling to squeeze each syllable out. "What…you're talking…about…"

"Hush, hush." Lust ran her fingers down the side of his face. He winced as her artificially sharpened fingernails nicked skin and drew blood. "Tell me no lies, and I _may_ consider giving you a swift and painless death."

She glimpsed a satisfying flash of fear in his eyes, quickly dampened and masked out of old habit. "How did you find me?"

Lust clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "I hardly think you're in much of a position to be asking questions now, don't you agree?"

With a sensual smile, she raised her free hand, plunging a single spear into his right arm.

He screamed. Dark blood rapidly drenched the sleeve of his jacket, dribbling onto the floor of the luggage compartment.

"It's…rude to answer a question with a question, pretty lady." The Ishvalan spat out through clenched teeth.

Lust raised an eyebrow. "You're certainly a feisty little mouse, aren't you?" Her thin, elongated claw was still embedded in his wound, and she twisted it.

He grimaced at the fresh burst of agony. "I have comrades onboard this train with me. Once they find us –"

"I'll just kill them all as well," continued Lust smoothly. "Whatever game you're playing here, Ishvalan mouse, you can't win."

His scarlet eyes were steady and unyielding, meeting her dark violet ones without flinching. Her favourite colour – of blood and of rubies. "Just who…or _what_ the hell are you?"

Lust tilted her head, amused. "I can't tell you that."

"Are you some sort of military secret? Is that why you're after the Stone? To make sure that the truth behind its making doesn't leak out to the wrong people?" His voice mounted with every sentence, tense with anticipation.

Lust merely smiled, but provided no answer to his questions. "Are you quite done?"

He gritted his teeth. "Fine. Go ahead, do whatever you want to me. But I will _never_ tell you where I hid the Stone."

Lust sighed dramatically. "Why must you all be so stubborn? Is the Philosopher's Stone something _really_ worth sacrificing your own life for?"

"I _need_ it." His reply was soft. Resigned.

"Let me guess." Lust ran her tongue across full burgundy lips and laughed. "You need it to regain your homeland? How _noble._ "

Her captive laughed right back at her. " _Please._ I'm not some kind of righteous hero – nor do I pretend to be one." He raised those captivating ruby eyes native to his people, full of flame and burning. "No. I want – _need_ – the Stone, because it's going to help me burn Amestris to the ground."

Lust cocked both eyebrows. "Vengeance – _that's_ your noble purpose?"

"Ishval is nothing but a pile of sand and ashes in the dust. There is no point in getting it back." He stated a-matter-of-factly. "But for each life those soldiers have taken or destroyed, every warrior, every child, every family, I'm going to make sure I return it to them – _tenfold._ "

His eyes were ablaze now, twin infernos of hate and rage and grim determination. And _lust_ – yes, there was always lust, lust for justice, for vengeance, for the power to hurt those who had hurt him.

Lust met his scorching gaze evenly. "And what are you willing to sacrifice for that goal?"

He licked his lips, but when he answered her, it was without hesitation.

"Everything." He let his eyes drop as if in exhaustion. "I'm willing to sacrifice…everything."

The floor beneath their feet jolted as the train clattered to a shaky stop. Lust glanced up as the whistle blew and the conductor bellowed the name of the station.

She withdrew her hand. Her claws retracted into normal-sized fingers, and the Ishvalan slid to the ground, leaving an ominous red stain smeared on the wall.

Lust turned to leave, heels clicking loudly against metal. "I'll be watching you, Ishvalan mouse. Utter one word about the Stone to anyone whom you're not supposed to, and I _will_ cut you up into itty-bitty pieces." She paused, shifting her head to meet his eyes. "Understand?"

"You're just going to…leave me?" He groaned softly, clutching fingers over his gushing wound.

Lust smiled, perching a hand on her perfectly curved hips in a model's pose. "I like the look in your eyes, Ishvalan alchemist. Perhaps you will one day show me," her dark eyes flashed. "What hell that burning hatred can procure."

Turning around and slicing through the wall of the compartment, she nimbly leapt onto the platform just as the whistle blew.

The wheels creaked, and Lust watched serenely as the train rolled out of the station, chugging towards the eastern reaches of Amestris. Wrath was not going to be pleased that she'd let a potential insurgent go, but who said she was going to tell him?

Gluttony stumbled and rolled to her side, having haphazardly jumped off the roof of the train where he'd been waiting for her. "Did you kill him, Lust? Did you kill him?"

Lust shrugged. "I thought he'd be more useful to us kept alive." _And really, he was too interesting to be simply snuffed out like a candle._ "I'd prefer if Father didn't know about this though, you understand, don't you Gluttony?"

Gluttony blinked, but nodded enthusiastically, eager to please Lust.

Lust sighed and flicked her hair over her shoulder.

 _She was a Homunculus._

"I hear the Fullmetal brat is back in the East, so we should probably check on him and that charming little brother of his."

 _She feared nothing, cared for nothing, sought nothing more than her Father's impassive nod of approval. Her artificial life, and the Stone which sustained it, was completely dedicated to Father's personal agenda._

She counted off her fingers. "We'll make sure the Flame Colonel isn't up to any funny business as well. After all, they're all our most promising human sacrifices."

 _It must be nice. Having something worth dying, worth sacrificing_ everything _for. Even if that 'thing' was pure vengeance and retribution._

"Come, Gluttony. We still have work to do."

* * *

 _ **Outskirts of East City, Amestris**_

 _ **1915**_

As their train chugged on towards the faraway spread of Central City, the young boy heaved a sigh and pushed open the metal door.

The rusty hinges moaned in protest, announcing his arrival to the dark-haired man on the narrow platform.

The man didn't move, his black cloak whipping around his sturdy figure like raven's wings. The wind snatched part of his voice away, but the words he uttered were still audible:

"Fullmetal?"

Alphonse Elric tried hard to suppress the tinge of disappointment which hit the bottom of his stomach like a stone, telling himself, as always, that it was stupid to feel that way. "Colonel."

"Oh, Alphonse." Colonel Roy Mustang said calmly, turning around as if he was not at all surprised – as if it were completely normal for either brother to discover him brooding alone at the back of the train.

Al felt his disappointment slip away, his face falling easily into his customary smile – god, did it feel good to be able to _smile_. He shut the door quietly behind him, offering Black Hayate an absentminded pat on the head before carefully pushing a covered paper cup into the colonel's hands.

Mustang nodded his thanks, silently putting the cup to his lips. Al felt his heart fill with warmth. He was aware, of course, that his brother and the colonel shared a bizarre relationship like no other: not quite employer and employee, not quite mentor and student, not quite father and son, not quite brothers, not quite friends. It was a strange connection conveyed in heated exchanges and snide remarks; disguised demonstrations of care and multiple layers of meaning hidden underneath meaning underneath meaning.

Perhaps what Al had was nowhere near as complex, perhaps _their_ connection was as simple as a pot of coffee brewed in the wee hours of the morning, a stray kitten allowed to roam free in the office (albeit reluctantly), a silent pat on an armoured back. Theirs was more wordless exchanges in mutual agreement that a certain hot-headed blonde pipsqueak was to be kept supervised at all times.

Alphonse hadn't realized how much he missed all that.

The colonel grimaced and rested his cup on the edge of the metal railing. "This is _tea_."

Alphonse smiled in a conspiratorial manner. "Is there a problem with that, colonel?"

"Tea is for…" he paused, most likely readjusting his choice of language. " _Ancient_ people like Fuhrer Grumman."

Alphonse had to stifle his snort of amusement.

Mustang sighed in response to Al's pointed silence. " _Fine._ " Much to Al's satisfaction, he took another small sip of his morning beverage.

They stood together on the platform in comfortable silence, the only sound the whistling of the air in their ears and the rumbling of the wheels beneath their feet. Al closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the wind on his bare face, icy fingers scrubbing his skin raw and clean. Black Hayate scratched mournfully at his pant leg, wanting to be picked up.

"It makes you feel alive, doesn't it?" Mustang commented idly.

Alphonse felt his eyes snap open, felt them drift towards the tall alchemist leaning against the metal railing, cup in hand, a contented look on his face. And although Alphonse had often tried to stop himself, his searching stare involuntarily wandered up to those once-black eyes, eyes which may never again be able to return his golden gaze.

Al took a breath.

 _Beat._

He released it. "Colonel, there's something you should know."

If Edward had been the one to utter those words, Mustang's response would probably have been an immediate: ' _What did you_ do _, Fullmetal?_ '. But since it was _Alphonse_ , the Flame Alchemist seemed thoroughly unconcerned.

"What is it?"

Alphonse bit the inside of his cheek. "Ling Yao's back in Amestris."

Mustang's only reaction to this was a slow sip of his tea and a casual " _Oh?_ ".

"Brother…wrote a letter to him. We didn't _actually_ expect him to come, but he did…with his Philosopher's Stone."

The colonel didn't quite freeze. To an external observer, there was no visible change in demeanour, but Al noted how his fingers curled a little tighter around his cup. His reply was cautious, tentative almost: "I…see."

 _Beat._

Another breath. In. Out. "I guess you've known from the start why we're here – why we came back to Central in the first place. I know that you and my brother have a rather…peculiar way of communicating, and I've always let him have the first go. But I think – I think it's time I've had a shot at this myself." Al rubbed his knuckles nervously. "Because I think that the best approach, at least when it comes to you, colonel, is a straightforward one."

Mustang didn't say a word. Al decided to take this as a good sign and kept talking. "Colonel, I – _we_ – have a request for you. And perhaps we have no right making these requests and demands, not after everything you've done for us, but –" Alphonse swallowed thickly. "We hope that you would take Ling up on his offer. _Please_ , use his Stone to reopen the Gate and get your sight back."

 _Beat._

For a moment, he said nothing.

 _Beat. Beat._

Finally, Colonel Mustang pressed his hand to his forehead and released a single, long hoot of laughter. It wasn't a hollow laugh, but it wasn't a purely happy one either – was it surprise, or bemusement?

"I didn't know you two _cared_ so much," he laughed again and pushed his fringe of dark hair out of his eyes. "And to think I was so desperate to get rid of Fullmetal because I thought he'd be a complete pain in the ass – not you Alphonse, of course."

Al laughed his own little laugh. "You don't really mean that, do you?"

"No, not really, no." Mustang admitted easily.

"So…you're _not_ mad?"

"No," said Mustang, amused. "Why would I be?"

"Oh…because brother said we went behind your back –"

Mustang sighed. "Alphonse. _Thank you._ "

Al stopped short.

"But –" The colonel smiled, more resigned than bitter. "I have to respectfully decline."

Alphonse could almost swear he heard an audible _'thunk!'_ as his stomach hit ground level. "But, _colonel!_ "

"Just give me a second to explain, Al." Mustang raised a hand, a gesture of authority so familiar that the barrage of protests about to leave Al's mouth simply vanished into thin air.

"I'd admit that everything Fullmetal said to me before was right. I expect he told you about our conversation before we hit that landmine – but _yes_ , the reason why I didn't accept Marcoh's Philosopher's Stone when he first offered it to me was simply because I _did_ see my 'sacrifice' at the Gate of Truth as a fitting sort of punishment. A karmic retribution, if you will."

"That's –" interjected Alphonse heatedly, familiar with this never-ending cycle of guilt and blame from his experience with his own brother. "That's _not_ true."

"Perhaps it isn't. Who _really_ knows, after all?" Mustang mused thoughtfully, swirling his tea around in its cup. "I'd also admit that I'm more than a little mad at the person I faded into those first few weeks after the Promised Day. I honestly tried, _really_ tried, to keep on going even though I clearly couldn't. I'd laugh it off as always, but at _some_ point –I'm not sure when – I just accepted that I'd eventually be discharged from the military. They didn't need me anymore. It was over – all of it."

Alphonse looked down at his entwined fingers.

"If it weren't for Hawkeye and _god_ , those men of mine just don't know when to _quit,_ I wouldn't have eventually been dragged to where I am today." Mustang continued, tone still unbearably light-hearted. "But my point _is,_ I can see now that there is no point in looking back on the past. On the things I did, or _didn't_ do. It's time to cut the crap and move forward."

Alphonse shook his head, confused. "But the only way you can _do_ that is if you –"

"Alphonse, why didn't you and your brother use the Stone to get your bodies back when you had the chance to?"

"Because," answered Al without hesitation. "'Getting our bodies back' was always just a selfish, personal goal. It wasn't _right_ to use the Stone for it."

"And isn't _that_ ," intoned the colonel simply. "Reason enough?"

"But it's different for _you_ , colonel! You _need_ it, you're the only person who can change this country!" insisted Alphonse with rare fervour. "Even if there _are_ Ishvalan lives in that Stone…why wouldn't you let them fight with you, colonel? _They_ deserve the right to fight for their own home!"

"Alphonse, I am not so conceited that I'd think I am the _only_ one who can change Amestris," said Mustang evenly. "And those Ishvalan souls…would they _really_ want to fight with a man like me? Someone who was personally responsible for the destruction of their homeland?"

"But –" Alphonse felt his voice stumble, stutter, fall apart. Frustration hit him like a punch in the face. "You can't…"

"Al." His voice was gentler this time, a soft breeze instead of the usual authoritative gale. "I'm not saying no for the sake of saying no." Bracing both hands on the railing, a small, but very real and very familiar smirk touched his lips. "I'm saying no because I don't _need_ it anymore."

Alphonse raised his head, his voice a tentative squeak. "You…don't?"

Mustang shrugged. "I mean, being able to see would probably be sort of useful sometimes, but I've realized that I don't really _need_ it to move forward – just as Edward didn't really need his human leg, or you didn't need your body." The smirk didn't fade. "Because I've also realized that it's fine to rely on other people sometimes."

Al blinked, but it was hard to keep the slow, and admittedly slightly confused, smile off his face. " _God_ , colonel…"

"Of course," declared Mustang importantly. "This doesn't mean I've given up just yet – I believe that there's probably some way out there – _far_ out there – for me to regain my sight without sacrificing human souls. After all, how hard could it possibly be?"

Alphonse outright laughed at this. At his feet, Hayate barked enthusiastically, not quite understanding the occasion but infected by the excitement nonetheless. "If you don't mind, colonel, my brother and I probably have a few pointers on that."

"Probably." He agreed lightly, angling his face into the wind. In something of a spur of the moment urge, the colonel held up his cup casually, cocking it in Al's direction. "To the future, Alphonse."

Al grinned. "To the future."

Right at that moment, the presence Alphonse had felt behind the slightly agape door shifted, and the metal hinges creaked open once again. "I hope you two weren't starting a party without me."

"Fullmetal," drawled Mustang coolly. "Here to join the 'party', so to speak?"

Edward clanked right up to the railing, avoided Black Hayate's pounce, and scowled good-naturedly. "Next stop is Central City," out of sheer force of habit, Ed plunged his hand into his pocket, realized he didn't have his pocketwatch anymore, and decided to 'borrow' the one on Mustang's belt instead. "We should arrive close to noon, just in time for a late breakfast."

Mustang proceeded to snatch his watch back from the golden-haired teenager. "A late breakfast? We just _had_ breakfast half an hour ago."

"Oh no we didn't." Edward grinned widely. "Because I finally figured out what I want as part of our I-beat-you-at-chess deal."

Mustang sighed. "Firstly – that match was a complete fluke. Secondly – it better not be something outrageous, Fullmetal."

"Nah, I'm sure two cones of gelato from that Aerugonian place across the street from the Library is a pretty reasonable request. Oh, I want them _extra-large_ , and we get to pick the flavours."

"That Aerugonian – Their gelato costs 5000 cenz _per_ cone! And that's only medium size!"

"Oh, so you know that place then. Nice, it'll save me the trouble."

Mustang looked just about ready to facepalm. " _Fullmetal_ , I'm not spending a chunk of my salary just so you and your brother can have ridiculously expensive _ice-cream_."

" _Aerugonian_ ice-cream," corrected Ed haughtily. "And it's on Al's 'Things-to-Eat' list. You don't want to disappoint my little brother now, do you?"

"Uh, actually, brother –" started Alphonse, but as always, once an argument kicked off, nothing short of a nuclear explosion was going to stop them.

"You don't actually expect me to believe that?" demanded Mustang.

"I don't know why you're making such a big fuss out of this, Colonel Cheapskate! I was a State Alchemist too so oh _yes_ I know how much your _salary_ is."

"Well, unlike _certain_ people, I have actual _bills_ to pay."

"Are you _insinuating_ –"

Alphonse sighed heavily and knelt down to stroke Black Hayate's ears. The dog yipped cheerfully, completely unperturbed by the heated artillery battle raging on above.

"Welcome back to the good old days."

* * *

 _ **Kanama Slums**_

 _ **Outskirts of Central City, Amestris**_

It was common knowledge that the outcasts of Amestris congregated in its slums, like a flock of unfortunate crows disowned by their own country.

Be it the red-eyed Ishvalans, wanted fugitives, human-shaped chimeras, or even State Alchemists with a bounty over their heads – the slums discriminated no one; welcomed all.

Hence, strangers were the furthest thing from a foreign sight in the Kanama slums, which was why barkeep Josei didn't think much of the young man in a worn-out travelling coat who took a seat at his open-air bar.

"Drink?" he asked his new customer gruffly.

The man barely looked up – his eyes stayed hidden underneath his hat, so that all the barkeep could discern of him was a slight smile flashing against dark skin. "A beer would be wonderful, thank you."

Josei grunted and leaned down to pull out the small crate of beer bottles he'd gotten cheap from a suspicious chap he was sure was a thief.

"What time is it, good sir?" asked the mysterious customer as Josei slammed down a green bottle on the dilapidated bar.

"Eleven o'clock," grunted Josei (he was a man who communicated mostly in grunts). "That'll be 200 cenz."

"Pretty expensive for the slums."

"Take it or leave it."

The man shrugged and pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket. They always paid up.

"Would you mind turning that up as well?" he requested politely, pointing to the lowly buzzing radio sitting on a makeshift shelf as he dropped a fistful of notes and coins into the barkeep's open palm.

Josei grunted, this time in irritation – he'd never, in his life, seen such a demanding customer. Usually people just sat down, drank, and went on their merry way.

Despite that, he did stomp over and reach up to toggle the volume knob on the rusty radio. A broadcaster's voice filtered scratchily through the speakers:

 _"…Fuhrer Grumman's private meeting with Drachman diplomats to renew the Drachma-Amestris Non-Aggression Pact will commence this afternoon at the Fuhrer's personal residence. There has also been talk of initiating a more permanent solution to Amestris's long term conflict with our northern neighbour, although considering Drachma's more recent acts of aggression at the border–"_

Noticing the stranger's smile widen almost imperceptibly, Josei commented: "You don't seem to be the political type."

"Now, we're all loyal citizens of Amestris, aren't we?" The traveller remarked brightly. "Keeping ahead of the most recent political news is all part of being invested in our country."

Josei (once again) grunted his scepticism.

The broadcaster continued rambling on: " _In our next piece of news, updates on the Ishval situation have been slowly filtering through our sources. There have, however, been rumours that a candidate has been appointed by the military to oversee the program, and initial stages will begin roughly in the next month –"_

It was still rather early for a morning in the slums, so only a smattering of people were lounging at the tumbledown bar. One of them, a well-built Ishvalan grimy from repairing some of the more decrepit shacks, snorted loudly and harshly enough that even the radio was temporarily muffled. "As if anyone with half a brain would believe that."

It was obvious that the large man made no attempt to conceal his callous remark. Josei shot him a warning look as some of his other customers glanced up curiously.

"Do you still have doubt, son?" inquired a soft-spoken man a few seats down – old, greying, and one of the bar's regulars though he never drank a drop of alcohol, Josei knew him as a good-natured Ishvalan priest who referred to _everyone_ as 'son'.

The younger man leaned back in his seat, cocking the glass of cheap shandy in his hand. " _Doubt_ is an extremely mellow understatement. The Amestrian military deciding to do _good?_ Hah! All this government knows is bloodshed and war."

The man's brash declaration was starting to attract a small crowd of other slum-dwellers, most of them Ishvalans. Some of Josei's customers quickly and efficiently paid for their drinks and left, recognizing that whatever conflict searing the air was absolutely none of their business.

Out of the corner of his eye, the barkeep noted that the unnamed stranger from before appeared to _very_ invested in the tense conversation.

"Doubt is natural." The old priest intoned calmly. "But words and actions fuelled by mindless hatred can only lead to disaster."

" _Mindless?_ " The man demanded hotly, whirling around to glare at the priest. Some of the people in the way quickly scurried out of the line of fire. "You haven't forgotten what they _did_ to us, have you?"

Turning back around, red eyes wildly searching, he pointed a single grease-blackened finger at the strange traveller. "You there! You're Ishvalan, aren't you?"

The traveller simply inclined his head slightly.

"Well, my fellow brethren! What do _you_ think of this pile of batcrap nonsense?"

The stranger simply shrugged. "I think Amestrians are not to be trusted."

Half the crowd winced, knowing that he was pretty much adding fuel to the fire.

The burly man swivelled, confidence assured. "See, old man? If you believe that things are actually going to _change_ around here, then you're nothing but a fool."

"Alright, that's enough!" Another Ishvalan, his white hair done up in a brown bandanna, rose from his seat. "You're shaming our name with this pointless fight, fellow brother! What's wrong with a bit of hope?"

The larger man rose as well, turning eyes coldly onto his newest challenger. The thin crowd backed away in anticipation of a fight, forming a vague semicircle which seemed to do nothing but box in the tension. "If you don't see this for what it truly is – an elaborate scam designed to make the people in authority lookgood – then you too, _brother_ , are also a fool."

His seemingly smaller opponent did not back down. "Well, _I_ think that you're just a sad, bitter man who refuses to move on from the past!"

"WHAT DID YOU SAY!?"

With a mighty bellow, the man sprung from his seat, lunging at his own kinsman. The two crashed into the dirt ground, each scrabbling for purchase as Josei tried to make his voice heard over the commotion.

"Hey! No fights in _my_ bar!"

The stranger in the travelling coat took a slow sip of his beer.

"Whoa, whoa! People! What is going on here?"

The effect of the new voice, thickly accented with the rich tones of Central City, was instantaneous. The crowd sprang apart like billiard balls, quickly dispersing as an officer in military uniform came into view.

The scuffling Ishvalans broke apart with no further prompting, rage and anxiety reflecting in two separate pairs of eyes.

"Officer, sir," started Josei hastily. "This is nothing but a misunderstanding."

The military man had the commonplace Amestrian blonde hair and blue eyes, the stripes on his shoulders declaring that he was a sergeant still climbing the ranks. A pair of handcuffs jangled on his hip as he crossed his arms sternly. "I'm afraid that I'm still going to have to take someone in. Physical assault is a public offence."

Before either Ishvalan could say a word, the stranger raised his beer callously, a telling smile on his lips. "I did it."

The barkeep frowned as the officer turned his attention to the newcomer. "Excuse me?"

"You didn't see the whole thing, sir," he said in the most unconcerned fashion possible. "I was the one who spurred them on. The fight was never their fault."

Josei's frown deepened – what was this person playing at?

The officer stroked his chin, clearly perturbed. On one hand, he probably just wanted to wrap up his scheduled inspection of the slums and head back for his lunch break; on the other – actually, why did he care anyway?

Josei could almost see the sergeant's line of thought as he unhooked the handcuffs from his belt. "In that case, I'm going to have to take you in for questioning."

The young traveller's smile never dropped as he held out his hands obediently, allowing the officer to snap the cuffs on.

"Don't worry," joked the sergeant lightly. "You'll probably get out of this with nothing but a slap on the wrist and a few days in lockup."

"That's reassuring, sir." He replied, tone just as light.

As the sergeant led his captive away and the strained atmosphere began to regain some semblance of normalcy, the elderly Ishvalan priest sidled up to Josei's end of the bar and commented sympathetically: "Poor boy. What a brave thing to do – taking the blame for his countrymen."

Josei grunted, unconvinced. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

In fact, what was it that made him so uneasy?

Was it that disquieting smile? Or was it the strange blood red gemstone Josei had seen him slip out of his pocket just before being arrested?

The barkeeper shrugged.

Whatever it was, it was just that – none of his business.

* * *

Now that he thought about it, it really was none of his business.

Sergeant George Kay stifled a yawn as he marched his newest arrestee down the dirt road leading away from the Kanama slums. What he would give for a cup of coffee and a new job right now.

After all that scary coup d'état business last spring, he'd just about decided that being employed by the military wasn't exactly the way to go if he wanted to live long enough to see his pension.

"What's your name, sir?"

The officer blinked and glanced down at his captive. "What?"

"Well, I was just wondering if you could tell me your name, good officer," said the young man nonchalantly as they entered a small section of dense forest – George's car was parked at the edge of it as he didn't want to risk driving through the prickly overgrowth. "I could tell you mine, if you like?"

When George didn't answer, the travelling Ishvalan simply cocked his head back and smiled. "Name's Evan."

The sergeant frowned. "George."

"George? That's a terrible name." 'Evan' raised his eyebrows. "Sergeant George, are you aware of how fascinating the human body is?"

"Well, I was never much of a science person –" he started uncertainly.

"You see, our bodies are just absolutely _incredible_ – the huge number of factors our brain has to take into account, the sheer number of hormones and enzymes it has at its disposal. Just imagine that, a million tiny little aspects functioning together to form a greater organism." Evan rolled his stiff shoulders, handcuffs rattling. "'All is one, one is all'."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Ah, apologies. It's an alchemy reference. Did you know that even our heart rate is controlled by our nervous system? The sympathetic nervous system speeds it up as part of the fight-or-flight reaction, but what I'm _really_ interested in is the parasympathetic nervous system."

George fingered the baton strapped to his other hip, wondering if he should just get his obviously off-his-rocker arrestee to shut the hell up.

"The parasympathetic nervous system slows the heart rate down when we've been working ourselves too hard. Can you guess how it does that?" asked Evan casually.

George opted to just ignore the strangely talkative Ishvalan. What did he care about the nervous system and whatnot? He should have just skipped this stupid inspection altogether.

"You see, our brains stimulate the body to produce a little something doctors call acetylcholine." His handcuffed captive smiled enigmatically. "Would you like to see how it works?"

It all happened much too fast.

One second the Ishvalan was right in front of him, the next there was a brief flash of light followed by the sharp shattering of metal.

George stumbled back, hand automatically going for his holster, but he never made it.

In retrospect, he never stood a chance.

Swivelling around and sweeping him off his feet, the Ishvalan man dropped quickly down on the sergeant's arms, pinning George to the ground as his left hand gripped his neck.

George wheezed as his grasp tightened.

"As I was saying," he continued, red light spilling from his right fist. George caught a glimpse of a bizarre circle sketched on the palm of the hand holding him down. "Acetylcholine stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system to decrease the heart rate. You can't say that you aren't just a little bit curious – what would happen if you got a pinch _too_ much of that particular hormone?"

Darkness encroached at the edges of his vision. George gasped valiantly, struggling against the invisible bonds clawing at his body.

"Convenient, isn't it?"

Head lolling back, he felt himself collapse limply against the grassy ground. Tired. _So tired._ If only he could have that coffee maybe he'll feel awake again…

"For what it's worth, I guess you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if I'm going to do this, I should get used to having blood on my hands."

The stranger's voice faded away. The last thing the Amestrian sergeant remembered was the sun and the faraway canopy – faint dappled gold against lush emerald green.

Then darkness. Whole. Total. Complete.

* * *

Evan Blake stood and brushed his hands off, regarding the lifeless corpse with a coldness he felt to the very core, penetrating skin, tissue, bone.

The accursed Stone pulsed to the rhythm of his own beating heart.

 _You can't turn back now, Ishvalan._ The voices seemed to resonate from within its swirling crimson depths.

He clenched his fist a little tighter around the smooth red surface and plunged it back into his pocket. "I never intended to." Evan declared out loud.

The forest remained silent this time.

Evan turned his wrist around, glancing once at the hands of his grimy watch.

A quarter past eleven. He was making good time – he'd give himself four hours to get dressed and proceed to the next stage.

Who knows? Maybe he'll have time for lunch too.

* * *

 _ **Corner of Rosethorne and Burke Street**_

 _ **Central City, Amestris**_

"Is it lunchtime already? I'm _starving_."

"Stop complaining, Fullmetal." Colonel Mustang's response was succinct and dispassionate, lacking his usual sliver of barely repressed annoyance.

Edward Elric leaned forwards, shamelessly slurping his chocolate chip and mint gelato as he cocked an eyebrow. "It's already one in the afternoon."

"Well, we wouldn't have taken this long if we had to drop by that restaurant just to get your ice creams."

" _Gelato_ ," corrected Ed with an extra loud slurp. "Plus, I totally earned it."

Mustang didn't look convinced as they turned the corner, their uneven footsteps echoing off the old cobblestone pavement. He seemed to know this route exceedingly well, as if he'd travelled along it more times than even he himself could count.

 _Of course he had._ Edward reflected vaguely, popping the last of his ice cream cone into his mouth.

They paused briefly at the forbidding-looking gateway for the colonel to catch his breath. Edward watched him wheeze, one hand braced against the black metal fence.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm good. _You_ try limping around on one leg."

Al licked off his vanilla stained fingers uncertainly. "Maybe you should let me carry that for a while."

The younger Elric glanced at the large paper bag Mustang had set down at his feet. Small bell-shaped blossoms prodded its sealed opening, as white as the freshest layer of snow on the Briggs mountain range.

"No, it's fine." Mustang awkwardly gathered up his crutch. "Let's keep moving."

The hike up the gentle grassy slopes of the cemetery was slow and winding, the mismatched trio stepping past rows upon rows of monotonous gravestones. Edward couldn't bear looking at the polished new headstones gleaming in the sun – how many of them belonged to men who'd died in the Promised Day conflict?

Edward scratched his cast uncomfortably, the silence loud in his ears. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour.

Ed and Al had visited his grave before, of course, but each tombstone was so identical to each other that they would have walked right past it if the colonel hadn't stopped short out of sheer muscle memory.

No one said a word as Mustang carefully lowered his package onto the grass, leaning down to retrieve a simple bouquet of white flowers and a small 6-pack carton of beer bottles.

He set both down in front of the grave, instinctively reaching out to touch the familiar name etched in stone as if making sure he never forgot it.

Edward simply stared at the intricately engraved letters, feeling his heart pound with old guilt.

 _ **Maes Hughes**_

 _ **1885 – 1914**_

Mustang straightened, smiling slightly. "I'd drink with you today, Hughes, if Hawkeye wouldn't kill me for it," he gestured vaguely at his injured ankle. "So I'm afraid I'd have to pass for now."

Ed lowered his eyes to the ground, examining each broken blade of grass stuck to the leather sides of his shoes. Behind him, Alphonse took an almost imperceptible step back, no doubt feeling exactly as Edward did – like an intruder on a very private moment.

They probably hadn't been standing there for more than a minute, but the seconds ticked by at an agonizing speed in the deep quiet of the military cemetery.

Finally, Mustang sighed once and turned around. "Alright, let's go."

"Whoa, wait – that was _it?_ " asked Edward in disbelief, trailing behind the colonel as they started back towards the gate.

"Well," mused Mustang, and Ed was surprised to see that the smile on his face was genuine. "I think he already knows everything I was about to say."

Edward blinked at this in confusion, but before he could completely muddle it out, Al's exclamation jolted him back to the present: "Major Armstrong!"

At the very mention of the name, Ed had to resist the urge to jump behind Alphonse and brace himself for lots of pink sparkles and some definite nudity. Just several paces ahead of them, the conspicuous major was making his way up the hill in gigantic strides, dressed smartly in a black suit with a small bouquet of lilies tucked underneath his arm.

The expression on his face was most uncharacteristically sombre, and to Edward's extreme surprise – no, he did not immediately try to suffocate them all with one of his crushing bearhugs. "Colonel Mustang. Elric brothers. I'm glad to see you're all well."

The two military officers saluted each other, Mustang balancing precariously on his good leg. "Major Armstrong, I would've expected that you'd be with the Fuhrer for the Drachman diplomatic visit today."

"Ah, so you remember," said Armstrong seriously, and Edward was still trying to wrap his head around this complete lack of barefaced optimism – in fact, he could barely make out any of the major's customary pink pixie dust. "The clash of events was unfortunate, but I'd already taken some time out of my annual leave for today. In any case, I'm aware that your team is partly in charge of security at the Fuhrer's residence, so I feel completely at ease knowing that Fuhrer Grumman is in such capable hands."

"Actually, _I_ was supposed to be in charge of the security detail after returning from my assignment in Sersa – but I'm still technically on sick leave." Mustang laughed guiltily. "And you're truly –" he nodded. "A _very_ good friend, major."

Armstrong merely inclined his head. "I was never as close to him as you were, Colonel Mustang. But he was beyond doubt a man I fully respected."

Mustang nodded once at this, milky eyes strangely wistful.

"And what about you, Edward and Alphonse Elric?" The Strong Arm Alchemist had to bend almost double just to get to Edward's height – and damn it, this was _after_ his growth spurt. "How are you two doing?"

Alphonse flashed a smile, while Edward shrugged nonchalantly. "Not too bad, considering."

"Good. Very good." The burly major nodded, his single curl of bright gold hair bobbing repeatedly. "Ah yes, before I forget, colonel – the Fuhrer has called for a full council meeting to be held right after his appointment with the Drachman diplomats, five o' clock sharp. Attendance from all Central City military officers ranked colonel and higher is mandatory."

Mustang chuckled. "Unfortunately, our train back to East City leaves at two. Besides, I intend to take full advantage of my medical leave." He smirked conspiratorially. "Your sister will be there as well, wouldn't she? With this being about Drachma and all."

"I expect she will be, yes."

"Then everything is completely under control. Not even Drachma is stupid enough to cause trouble with her arou –"

" _Major!_ Major Armstrong!"

Edward glanced down the hill, just in time to catch a glimpse of chestnut brown hair before the person in question doubled over from gasping too hard. "Major… There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Ed raised an eyebrow. " _Denny?_ "

"Sergeant Denny Brosh," boomed Armstrong. "You _do_ know today's my day off, don't you?"

Denny trudged up the slope, still wheezing for air. "But it's…urgent," he stopped and blinked, apparently noticing the extra company. "Oh, uh – Colonel Mustang, sir! Hello, Alphonse."

Mustang waved a hand in acknowledgement. Edward scowled. "Sure. Just ignore me, won't you?"

But Denny's attention was already elsewhere, resting his hands on his knees as he babbled on about some situation at the railway station. "–So now the trains can't run and they need a State Alchemist _immediately_."

Even Armstrong seemed hesitant. "You're unsure about what's happened?"

"Only that the main tracks have somehow been damaged. The station master seemed really distressed, and we could hardly get a few legible words out of him when we received his call. Mari– I mean, Lieutenant Ross is already onsite to assess the situation."

"Alright." Stroking his chin thoughtfully, the major shifted his head to address Mustang. "It seems that the trains won't be running for a while, colonel. Would you like me to arrange a car and an escort for you instead?"

"Nah, we'll manage." Mustang grinned. "Thanks for the offer."

Nodding, Armstrong swivelled to follow Denny back to the gate. "And by the way," he turned, meeting Ed's eyes. "You should still swing by Central Command."

His words were definitely directed at the colonel, but his blue gaze continued to hold Edward's. "I believe there's a very special guest who's been…camping out in your office for the past several days, so to speak."

Mustang frowned at this. "Oh?"

Before any of them could ask the major to clarify, he and Brosh were already striding quickly down the hill, the sergeant filling Armstrong in on whatever vague details he had.

"O…kay," said Alphonse. "Now what? Are we staying here for the night?"

"Well, Central Command sounds like a really good idea right about now." Edward grimaced, rubbing the suddenly painful stump of his missing leg.

"Looks like it's going to rain."

* * *

Roy could tell that something was off the moment they stepped into his Central City office.

Firstly, the distinctive smell of Xingese takeout and cafeteria sandwiches permeated the air, hanging over them like some ominous cloud.

Secondly, the Elric brothers, even _Edward_ , were suddenly much, much quieter – either stunned by revelation or horrified by the sight before them.

Thirdly –

"Good afternoon, Colonel Mustang! And my dearest pal Edward, how nice of you to drop by as well!"

" _Pal!?_ " Edward exclaimed in righteous anger. "What are you _doing_ here, Ling?"

"Isn't it obvious –"

There was a frenzied shuffle of clothing as Ling was cut off by May Chang's squeal of surprise. "Sir Alphonse!"

Roy instinctively ducked as something barrelled through the air right past him, followed by a soft _oof!_ as Alphonse was adequately treated to whatever passed as a greeting for the young Xingese alchemist.

Meanwhile, there was a dull clattering which sounded suspiciously like plastic plates being swept onto the floor and screeches of furniture being pushed out of the way as Edward and Ling engaged in a tad bit more than the usual verbal sparring.

" _What?_ I just didn't have money for a hotel room!"

 _Crash!_

"And _this_ was your next best idea? Camping out in the colonel's office?"

 _Clatter!_

"It was _unoccupied_. I'm sure no one minded!"

"Hell yeah no one minded! And how did you pay for all this food anyway, Squinty-Eyes?"

 _Thunk!_

"Ouch, Lan Fan! What was _that_ for?"

Roy sighed in resignation and pinched the bridge of his nose, already starting to feel the beginning twitches of a migraine.

Peace and quiet were definitely overrated with the Fullmetal Alchemist around.

Above the din, Roy could just register a shrill ringing emanating from the very end of the room.

Closing the door to ensure that none of the officers on their floor would come barging in thinking that Central Command was under siege, Roy picked his way carefully across the office, tripping once over a miniature tower of cardboard takeout boxes in the process.

Finally reaching his desk, Roy propped himself up against the hard mahogany edge and groped for the handle of his phone.

He pressed it to his ear, unable to hear himself speak over the noise. "HELLO? COLONEL ROY MUSTANG SPEAKING."

" _Sir, there's no need to shout._ "

The humourless voice was instantly recognizable even from a scratchy line a couple hundred miles away, and Roy started guiltily upright despite himself. "Lieutenant!" He laughed awkwardly. "What a uh – what a coincidence!"

" _I thought you'd pick up, colonel._ " Lieutenant Hawkeye's tone remained impossibly dry. " _How's Central City?_ "

"It's…same as always."

Hawkeye sighed, dropping all pretence. " _Did you_ honestly _think I wouldn't notice if you'd upped and ditched the hospital for half a day?_ "

"Well, it was supposed to be a quick trip here and back." Roy firmly pushed Black Hayate down as the dog tried to jump onto the table, his ears perked to catch the familiar melody of his master's stern voice. They had to make a detour to Central City Park to pick him up earlier (the cemetery had a bit of a no pets policy, so they'd left him tied to a bench). "You wouldn't even know that I was gone."

There was a single beat of unimpressed silence.

Roy rubbed the back of his neck. "Anyway, I'm uh…sorry?"

Hawkeye, knowing full well how it had the ability to make Roy squirm, triumphantly held her silence for a few seconds longer. Finally, she heaved another sigh. " _When will you be back?_ "

"Apparently there's an issue at the station and the trains can't run," explained Roy sheepishly. "We'll try to catch one first thing tomorrow morning."

" _Sir…You're not fit to be out of the hospital._ "

"I'm _fine_ ," insisted Roy, and this declaration wasn't out of some misplaced sense of heroism – he really _did_ feel better (compared to a day ago, that is).

Hawkeye seemed to consider this for a moment. " _I'm coming down._ "

Roy blinked, wondering if he'd misheard. "What?"

" _I'll drive down right now to pick you and the Elric brothers up. Sit tight and don't do anything dangerous._ "

"Lieutenant, really, that's unnecessary."

" _Believe me, sir, it_ is _necessary_ ," a brief pause. " _Besides, I want to pay my respects as well._ "

Roy raised an eyebrow just as the line clicked, Hawkeye having hung up.

"That was Hawkeye, wasn't it?" Edward inquired slyly from across the room, having (apparently) tied up his shouting match with Ling.

Roy's involuntary wince was probably all the confirmation Ed needed. "She says she's coming to pick us up. It's a four hour drive from East City – three if you use the short cuts."

Edward snorted his amusement. "Looks like she _still_ doesn't trust you to stay out of trouble for a full day."

Roy primly ignored the golden-haired teenager, returning his phone to its cradle. "And by the way, welcome to Central City, Prince Ling Yao. It's nice to meet your acquaintance again."

"It's certainly been a while, Colonel Mustang," replied Ling with complete politeness. There was a simultaneous clapping of hands – Roy guessed that both he and Lan Fan were offering them the traditional Xingese greeting. "Really, I apologize for the mess. We'll clean up before we leave, I promise."

"I'll take your word for that, Ling." Roy smiled and straightened. "Now, I've heard that the great nation of Xing is interested in a trading agreement with Amestris. And since Ishval is the furthest eastern outpost we currently have…I think we could have quite the discussion about the practicalities of such an alliance."

"You certainly know how to get right to the point, colonel." Ling laughed, boisterous and energetic as ever. "How about we discuss this over lunch? Edward, any requests?"

"As long as I'm not paying for it." Roy could quite literally hear the grin in Ed's voice, and his stomach sank a little further as he realized that his bank account was going to be another few thousand cenz emptier before the afternoon was over.

Not wanting to seem ungracious before his foreign guests though, Roy carefully tested his weight on his uninjured leg and straightened his coat. "What would you recommend, Ling?"

"For starters, there _is_ this amazingly good Xingese restaurant just down the street with the _best_ dumplings I've ever tasted…"

* * *

At first glance, the lone sergeant climbing the stairs to Central Command was as nondescript as they came.

His hair a shade of blonde so light it was almost white, his irises an unremarkable dull brown, the sergeant paused on the grand marble steps to straighten his too-large uniform.

"Hey there, mate! Can I help you?"

The sergeant whirled around, nerves still jittery. Coming down the steps towards him was a red-haired military officer, a large German Shepherd pulling at the leash around his wrist. "You look a bit lost there."

The sergeant swept his eyes over the man's epaulettes – a warrant officer.

He moved uncertainly to salute, but the man waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, we're all equals on this ground – or so they'd like us to think," he laughed at his own little joke. "The name's Jason. So, do you need a hand there?"

"Actually, uh – sir, I'm a new transfer from East City. Just getting familiar with Central Command, is all."

Jason grinned. " _That_ explains why I've never seen you around before. What's your name?"

 _George? That's a terrible name._

The sergeant smiled in amusement as his lips moved of their own accord. "George."

 _It's not like I can come up with something better._

"Ah, what a coincidence! I know another George who works on the same floor as I do," the warrant officer absentmindedly scratched his dog behind the ears. "I guess 'George' is a terribly common name then, ha! Now, newbie, before you are subjected to the customary new officer hazings, I'd like to demonstrate a little bit of Central Command friendliness by asking you if you'd like me to show you around?"

 _Perfect._

"Well, I'm curious about what's on the fourth floor. I think I'll be posted there starting tomorrow."

Jason cocked an eyebrow and chuckled. "Now that's impossible. The fourth floor is where the high-ranking official's offices are located. Fifth floor is the Fuhrer's private office – off-limits unless you're a general or the Fuhrer has personally summoned you." He scratched the side of his neck. "I'm afraid I can't show you around the fourth floor anyway, there's an important military council meeting scheduled for today so the entire area is cordoned off with security. You're not getting past without a _very_ good reason."

 _Just as I thought – though it's nice to have it confirmed._

"What time?"

"Huh?"

"What time is the council meeting?"

Jason frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. "Five o' clock. Why?"

"Just curious."

 _Looks like I'll need a 'good reason' then._

The sergeant started as a something wet and rough touched his fingers. He glanced down at the German Shepherd, who was panting happily at him, pink tongue lolling.

"Look at that!" Jason fondled the dog's head affectionately. "The girl likes you! She's a bit of a newbie as well, this one – a tad rough around the edges, but nothing some good training can't fix."

 _Interesting._

"You work as a dog trainer then?"

"Not a very glamorous job for a warrant officer, I'd expect. But dogs sure are much less complicated than humans." Jason shrugged. "Her name's Coco. Would you like to pet her?"

The sergeant turned his head away to stifle a laugh. " _Coco?_ "

"Hey, don't judge. Now go on – pet her."

The sergeant dropped down to one knee, raising a gloved hand to stroke the dog's soft ears. In the metal name tag attached to its collar, the sergeant caught a glimpse of his own reflection.

 _The hair was easy. All I had to do was tweak the concentrations of pheomelanin and eumelanin. Changing the colour of my skin was more difficult – though considering that skin tone is just a combination of different types of melanin, it was nothing a little alchemy and the Stone couldn't handle._

Coco pushed its nose into his hand, sniffing inquisitively.

 _And for the eyes – apparently coloured contact lenses can fool just about anyone._

"– You know, this really brings back memories, Colonel Bastard."

The sergeant froze at the sound of _that_ voice, loud and clear, drifting down to his ears from the main entrance.

"You mean your _daring_ display of alchemy at your State Alchemist assessment? Yes, I remember that."

He turned.

The watery sun glanced off a braid of pure gold, fluttering in the breeze. And next to him – pitch black hair, dark as a crow's feather.

"I can't believe this has never occurred to me before, but what did _you_ do at your certification test? Besides throw a lot of fire around, I mean – you do that way too often." The boy was still wearing his trademark coat, the red fabric rippling every time he took a step.

"Do I really need to say any more than I absolutely crushed the competition?"

A sarcastic snort. "Throw a lot of fire around it is."

"Now, what is this State Alchemist assessment that you're talking about?" A new voice, slightly foreign. The sergeant felt his eyes shift to the three foreigners – Xingese? – currently in their company. "Edward?"

"Oh, you're gonna like this, Ling. Fullmetal here pointed a spear at Fuhrer Bradley for his assessment."

"I'm still proud of it."

"You pointed a _spear_ at _Wra –_ I mean, Bradley!?"

Their voices faded down the staircase as the group stepped onto the street. The sergeant's gaze seemed permanently attached to their retreating backs as they disappeared amongst the crowd.

The Fullmetal Alchemist hadn't even glanced at him. He wondered if he would've have recognized him if he did.

The sergeant smiled bitterly.

 _Such naivety. Of course it wouldn't be so easy to get rid of two State Alchemists._

They were obviously injured though – that could turn out favourably for him.

"Hey, you okay?"

The sergeant looked up. "Oh, I'm good."

Warrant Officer Jason grinned. "To be in the presence of legends, eh? I was here during the Promised Day crisis, you know – and whatever rumours you hear about Fullmetal and Flame, _damn_ those two can pack quite the punch when they feel like it." He nodded. "You said you're from East City, right? I expect you'll be quite well-acquainted with them."

The sergeant stood, brushing down his uniform. "Yes, I guess you could say that I'm…acquainted."

Jason smiled widely. "Anyway, I know you wanted a tour of the upper levels, but how about I show you around the military kennels instead? I'm certain you'll like it."

The sergeant tore his eyes away from the street, forcing a smile which never quite reached his dull brown eyes.

"Sure. I _do_ love dogs."

* * *

 _ **A few hours later**_

 _ **Central Command Headquarters**_

 _ **Central City, Amestris**_

Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye glanced up at the darkening sky just as an icy splatter of moisture struck her cheek.

Wiping her face with the sleeve of her military jacket, Riza frowned as the grey clouds continued to spray fine droplets. Looks like they'll be staying overnight at Central City regardless – she wasn't about to drive back in this weather.

Two young corporals saluted her as she ascended the grand marble staircase, pocketing her car keys as she went.

Inside the main hallway, she flipped her wrist to check her watch, boots clicking sharply against the monochromic stone tiles.

 _Ten minutes to five._

Riza looked up.

She wondered where the colonel was.

In retrospect, the team had only been posted at Central Command since several months ago, but already she knew these labyrinthine corridors like the back of her hand. Her mind elsewhere, her feet automatically led her down a turning and up a flight of stairs, determined to get to the office before the after-work rush hour started.

The narrow corridor on the second floor was deserted at this time of the day – it'd apparently taken quite some damage during Father's power rampage, so most of the newly refurbished offices were still empty.

Outside, raindrops pinged eerily against the frosted glass windows. Riza paused as the sound of footsteps echoed up ahead.

Reflexively, she tensed in anticipation, her past encounter with the Homunculus Pride leaving her with a slight wariness against dark hallways and shadowed niches.

The tension eased out of her shoulders as a uniformed military officer – a sergeant, she automatically noted – rounded the corner.

 _Relax, Riza._

But although that was what she often told herself, she had to admit that being sharp and on edge had come in handy more times than she could count throughout her military career.

Resuming her walk, Riza chose to keep her eyes straight ahead as the unknown officer's footsteps reverberated even closer.

They crossed paths, shoulders nearly brushing.

Riza blinked and turned. "Excuse me?"

The sergeant stopped in his tracks, shifting his head – the face was unfamiliar, not at all reassuring the uneasy pounding in Riza's chest. "Sir, is there a problem?"

"No, it's just…" Riza frowned, but kept her voice coolly professional. "I was just wondering where you've been."

"I've just come from the kennels, sir." The sergeant replied neutrally.

That explained the almost paralysing dog scent – but why could she catch the coppery whiff of blood on the air as well?

Inwardly, Riza wasn't quite convinced, but outwardly, she had no choice but to nod once in acknowledgement. "Thank you, sergeant. You may be on your way."

The sergeant nodded in return and snapped into an ineptly executed salute.

With his _left_ hand.

Riza froze. "Actually, there is one more thing."

The sergeant had already swivelled around to leave – he didn't turn back to meet her eyes. "Yes?"

"Have we met before?"

The sergeant appeared to consider this. "Not that I know of, Lieutenant Hawkeye."

Calmly, carefully, Riza dropped her hand to her hip, swiftly unbuckling her holster. "I've never seen you at Central Command."

"I'm newly transferred."

Riza felt her fingers curl around the metal grip of her handgun. "Even so, a sergeant should still know full well that a correct military salute is executed with the _right_ hand."

There was a brief pause of silence. Riza clenched her jaw, amber eyes searching his blue-swathed back.

Then, a dry laugh – lifeless and impassive. "I apologize, lieutenant. My dominant hand just happens to be my left, I simply slipped."

"Is that so?" asked Riza softly. "Then I assume you wouldn't mind coming with me to the Internal Affairs Department to confirm your identity."

The sergeant sighed. "Is this really necessary?"

Riza remained silent. For a long moment, the only sound in the empty corridor was the insistent tapping of rain against the windows.

"I'm sorry…" Riza's eyes dropped at the slightest flash of movement, just in time to catch him slip his left hand into his pocket. "But I can't do that."

He whirled around – Riza caught a telltale flash of blood red.

 _A Philosopher's Stone?_

In a single, smooth motion, Riza whipped out her gun, snapping up her hand to aim it at his forehead. "Not fast enough, _sergeant._ "

He simply smiled, right hand half-extended. His white glove, already loosened, slipped off and fluttered to the ground, revealing a perfectly sketched transmutation circle on the underside of his palm. "Not bad, Lieutenant Hawkeye. Not bad at all."

Riza narrowed her eyes and cocked her gun.

" _Who are you?_ "

* * *

"See? I told you it was going to rain." Edward tapped his knuckles against a grimy windowpane in perfect time to the pattering raindrops. "I hope Lieutenant Hawkeye managed to avoid the downpour."

Alphonse raised an eyebrow as his brother breathed onto the dusty glass and rubbed it clean with the sleeve of his red cloak. "You aren't _that_ bored, are you brother?"

Edward's only response was an extended yawn and a bite of the fruit pastry he'd snagged from the cafeteria – Al was amused by how he still managed to get free treats after all these years (they weren't kids anymore, you know). "Isn't Colonel Bastard _done_ yet? He and Ling have been talking nonstop for hours. And they're _still_ talking!"

He waved vaguely at the roof, allegedly referring to where Ling, Lan Fan, and the colonel had returned to his office to 'talk'. Edward had instead offered to take Hayate for a walk around Central Command.

Al shrugged. Edward held out his pastry, but Alphonse waved it away.

The younger Elric felt a little too stuffed after their hearty lunch of 'authentic Xingese cuisine' – encouraged by Al's deep appreciation for good food (due to having lost the ability to eat during his time as a suit of armour), Ling Yao had ordered almost everything on the menu that he thought his 'Amestrian friends' would enjoy.

Of course, Alphonse felt pretty bad that this was at the expense of Colonel Mustang's much abused wallet – but if their discussions about a cross-desert rail system connecting Ishval and Xing were to work out, then it was all for a good cause.

"What about you, May? Did you enjoy lunch?" asked Al pleasantly.

May Chang started from where she'd been staring quietly out of the window. "Oh, uh – yes! It was really nice."

Edward arched an eyebrow at their younger companion. "Something on your mind?"

May Chang frowned thoughtfully, twirling one of her dark braids around her finger. Xiao Mei, apparently sensing her master's mood, squeaked and burrowed into her neck. "No…It's probably nothing. Just this feeling…" She paused.

"Feeling?" Al prompted curiously as Edward fed Black Hayate the last of his pastry.

"Yes. It's like that feeling I used to get whenever a Homunculus was in the vicinity – as if I can…sense a huge mass of people compressed into a single object." May shivered involuntarily, rubbing her arms. "It's probably just the Philosopher's Stone Ling Yao brought back to Amestris, though. I'm just not sure…"

May Chang trailed off as she resumed her staring contest with the darkened windows.

Edward exchanged glances with Alphonse as the three teenagers (and dog) continued their leisurely stroll down the hallway.

Only for Ed to stop short as Black Hayate tugged at his leash. "What is it, Hayate?"

The Shiba Inu barked once and growled. Edward followed his gaze to a darkened side corridor which presumably led to another row of offices. "What's up with you, Hayate? There's nothing there."

Edward winced as a small hand grabbed his arm – which unfortunately happened to be the broken one. "May! Wha –"

Their eyes met, May Chang's dark irises wide with confusion. "We – we should go."

"What?"

" _Now._ "

Black Hayate threw back his head and howled.

Edward swung back at Alphonse's cry of alarm: "Brother, look out!"

Barrelling out of the darkness, with gleaming eyes and salivating jaws was – _what the hell was that!?_

Reflexively, Edward sprung out of the way, hitting the ground shoulder-first.

A sharp jolt of white-hot pain shot up his arm as his healing bones were shaken out of position. Edward gritted his teeth and rolled over.

Stalking towards him was possibly the largest canine Edward had ever seen.

Its mangled mane of dark fur was sparse and spotted, too-sharp claws scraping noisily against the smooth tiles. The creature bared its full row of razor sharp teeth, an inhuman cry escaping from its throat.

Edward widened his eyes, unnerved by the sheer _wrongness_ of this – this _monster._

"Ed!"

There was a flash of black and white, and Black Hayate had launched itself at the creature's hindlegs, snapping off a sizeable chunk of its flesh.

The creature howled in pain, the corrupted sound mangled and just plain _wrong_. Edward resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears as he climbed shakily to his feet.

"Brother, catch!" A flash of a transmutation, and Edward smoothly caught the long metal spear Alphonse had transmuted from the floor.

Just in time too, for less than a second later, the _thing_ was lunging for his throat.

Edward spun his spear around with his good arm, slashing it across the creature's chest. Blood splattered onto his clothes, and the creature limped back, howling – or crying?

Edward bit his lip, his clenched fist shaking. _Thisiswrongthisiswrongthisiswrong._

A circle of five kunai plunged into the floor around the unknown creature, instantly lighting up in the shape of an alkahestry transmutation circle.

A crackle of electricity snaked around its deformed body. A shrill shriek reverberated down the corridor as the monstrous thing half-collapsed, stunned by May's alkahestry.

"Edward!" called May.

Ed took a breath and surged forward, intending to finish the creature off before it _really_ sunk its teeth into one of them.

"Brother, _NO!_ "

Edward froze in mid-lunge, the tip of his weapon a mere inch away from the creature's skull. He glanced up at Alphonse, who had his back pressed against the wall, a hand clasped over his mouth. His face was ashen, his golden eyes wide with pure terror. "It can't be…It's…"

At the sound of a menacing growl, Edward's gaze was drawn back towards the creature, meeting _its_ eyes and seeing himself reflected in their crazed depths – eyes very, very much _human_.

The spear clattered from his numb fingers.

The creature wailed and attacked.

If May Chang hadn't sprung out of nowhere and slapped her hands to the ground, an earthen cage instantly rising out of the stone tiles and imprisoning it, Edward's throat would probably have been torn out.

The Fullmetal Alchemist staggered back and slumped to the ground, breathing hard.

May was in front of him, next to him, shaking his shoulder urgently. "Edward? Mr. Edward! Are you okay?"

He couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear anything except for the increasingly human-sounding shrieks emanating from the captured chimera.

 _It_ looked up, staring intently at Edward. He couldn't pull his eyes away as the chimera's jaws gaped open and it said two simple words:

" _Help…me…_ "

Edward lurched backwards, heart pounding, a wave of nausea pulling him under as he shoved his own hand over his mouth to keep from throwing up.

"Oh God…"


End file.
